Three Cheers for the Red, Black, and Blue!
by The Stage Manager
Summary: A few months after the events of Spider-Man: Homecoming, Peter Parker finds a critically injured Captain America in an alley in Queens. With nowhere else to go, Peter takes the fugitive Avenger back home and helps him recover. However, he struggles to keep this secret from both Aunt May and Tony Stark. Also, Ned almost dies from a fanboy heart attack.
1. Chapter 1

The streets of Queens were surprisingly quiet for a Friday night. Peter's phone vibrated and he nearly jumped out of his skin. It was nothing—just an alarm set for 2:00 a.m. to remind him to get his skinny spider-butt home before Aunt May killed him.

When May discovered his secret identity, she reacted exactly how Peter had expected her to: yelling, swearing, freaking out, and he wound up grounded for the rest of his life (just about.) At first, she forbade him from ever donning the suit again; that was to be expected. After all, Peter was the only family she had left. She couldn't stand by on the sidelines and allow him to get himself killed! After the initial shock wore off (and after she had left Tony Stark a voicemail with a few choice words) she and Peter talked. Deep down, she knew Spider-Man was very much a part of Peter Parker—they were one and the same—and she couldn't take that away from him. After all, it was his identity, part of who he was. Still, the decision to allow him to continue to throw himself into the middle of danger had not been an easy decision to make. Spider-Man was benched for nearly two weeks while she mulled it over. Finally, after many long nights filled with prayers, worrying, and some cursing, she sat Peter down and she (in a sense) let him go. There were a few ground rules laid down, which included a 2:00 a.m. curfew (hence the alarm), a strict no-secrets policy, and Peter had to tell her where he was and where he was going.

Tonight, however, all those rules went out the window because Aunt May wasn't home. She had left until Sunday to attend the wedding of an old friend. That left Peter free to do whatever he pleased. If he wanted, he could throw a house party, or make fireworks, or bake and eat an entire pie (which he actually ended up doing—it was Aunt May's recipe for blueberry pie and it was divine and he refused to feel any shame about eating an entire pie in one sitting.) Peter liked the idea of doing something crazy and rebellious, however, he didn't want to get in trouble. And, on top of that, Ned was home sick with the flu and it wasn't as much fun doing stupid stuff if you didn't have anyone to do it with. So, he spent a good portion of his freedom loafing around in his underwear watching Netflix and imagining what it would be like to hang out with the Avengers. (Admittedly, there were moments when he regretted turning Mr. Stark down, but he knew he'd made the right call.)

The other portion of his time was spent as Spider-Man, out patrolling the streets. The streets, however, were incredibly _boring_ this week. He'd helped a little girl find her mom, accidentally crashed a funeral, rescued a whole bunch of dogs from a dog fighting ring, bought groceries for a homeless man, recovered a stolen wallet, crashed a wedding, and gave food to a stray dog (which had begun to follow him around and hang around outside of his apartment—he named her Tessa.) Not a completely unsuccessful week, but he couldn't deny that he was absolutely bored. There had been no robberies, fires, assaults, anything. It wasn't a bad thing, per say, but Peter couldn't help but wonder where everybody had gone.

That Friday night had been no exception. Peter jumped when the alarm on his phone went off. Technically, he didn't really _have_ to be home by 2:00 a.m., seeing as Aunt May was away. However, there was simply nothing to do, no one to help, so, with a disappointed sigh, Peter rose from his spot perched on top of a large skyscraper, and began to meander back home.

"I don't get it, Karen," Peter complained, dejectedly. "Where did everybody go?" He swung down from the tall building and landed gracefully on the pavement below.

"I'm afraid that I don't know. I can run a search for you, if you'd like?" Karen suggested. To Peter, the AI sounded almost sympathetic.

Peter sighed. "Nah, you don't have to. I'm just complaining,"

"Crime rates have appeared to drop significantly within the last week," the AI commented. "Congradulation,"

"I know," Peter mumbled. "It sucks," He kicked an empty can. "I mean, not that it's a bad thing that all the crime is gone," he commented. "It's just, what if I'm not needed anymore? I mean… what if nobody needs Spider-Man? What'll I do then?"

"You could open up a bakery," Karen suggested. "I have noticed that you seem to enjoy the culinary arts,"

Peter wrinkled his nose. "What?" he asked. "I mean, baking's not the greatest, but I guess it's okay. I really don't mind it that much but it's not really my favorite," he said.

"Would you like me to pull up the video footage of Wednesday night?" Karen asked.

Peter made a face. "Why would I want that?" he asked.

Karen didn't respond. Instead, she pulled a video up in the mask's screen. It was a video Peter had taken of himself, wearing the Spider-Man suit and Aunt May's lacy yellow apron.

 _"_ _Welcome back to Baking with Spider-Man! Tonight we'll be making Aunt May's famous blueberry pie for our guest host, Black Widow—"_ The camera panned over to a Black Widow action figure standing on the counter. 

"No, no, no!" Peter screeched, earning him a few odd looks from the few other people wandering around the streets. "Turn that off, delete it! Karen, why do you have that?" he demanded. He felt his face heating up beneath the mask.

"I automatically download all photos and videos you take onto my hard-drive for storage," Karen answered casually.

Peter stopped walking just long enough to bury his face in his hands from deep embarrassment. "Just… please tell me that Mr. Stark doesn't have access to them, does he? It's not part of some stupid 'Scrapbook Protocol Program' or anything, right?" he asked desperately.

"No," the AI said simply. "But I can send them to him, if you would like. Would you like me to send them to him?"

" _No!_ " Peter screeched again, sound almost raptor-like. "No, Karen, why would I want that?" he cried.

"I thought they were good videos. I'm sure that the Food Network—"

"No." Peter said. "Whatever it is, just… no. I think I'm just gonna stick with being Spider-Man and _not_ open up a bakery or start a cooking channel or anything,"

Suddenly, the sound of explosions pierced the air, followed by a heavy clattering sound. Spider-Man jumped nearly three feet in the air.

"Karen, _what was that_?" Peter demanded, his voice cracking.

"It sounded like an explosion," the suit responded simply.

"Do you know where it came from?" Peter asked. _Finally, some action!_ he thought inwardly.

"Five blocks south from here," Karen said. "Do you want me to plan the quickest route to get there?"

"Yeah!"

After a second of processing, Karen instructed: "Climb the building to your left," And with that, Peter was off. It didn't take more than a minute or two to reach the scene of the crime. The teenager perched at the top of a building and peered down at the ally below, trying to get a feel for what was going on.

Peter saw four men, one of whom was laying face down on the ground, surrounded by a large pool of blood. The other three men were riffling through his pockets. They were decked out in black from head to toe, with classic "bank robber" aesthetic. With all three men distracted, Peter took the opportunity to leap down from the building's roof and stand at the mouth of the alley way.

"Didn't your moms ever teach you that stealing was wrong?" Spider-Man asked leaning casually against the brick wall of one of the buildings.

The thieves immediately whirled around. Peter hadn't noticed before, but each one of them was wearing a gas mask to conceal their identities. Peter, somewhat startled, jumped back.

"That's the creepiest thing I've _ever_ seen!" he blurted out. "What are those?"

One of the thieves took a shaky step backwards, clearly unnerved by the almost-Avenger's presence. "Boss! It's Spider-Man! I thought you said none of those spandex-ladened freaks would bother showing up!" he spat, his voice filled with both anxiety and indignation.

The boss, who was the largest in stature, reached forward and gave the fearful goon a firm slap upside the head. "Pull it together, Mammoth! Three on one? We can take him,"

The other goon leaned forward and crooned, "Aw, you afraid of the itsy bitsy spider?"

Mammoth gave the other henchman a hard push. "Shove it, Sting. Ain't you guys seen the news? That kid's a force-a-nature,"

Peter smirked. "Aw, you're a fan! I can give you an autograph if you want," he said cheekily.

The boss-man, ignoring the petty fighting of his two teammates, took a bold step forward. "Ain't it a little bit past your bedtime, kid?" he asked.

Inwardly, Spider-Man cringed. "What? No! I don't have a bedtime!" he recoiled quickly. His eyes flickered towards the man on the ground. He was losing a lot of blood. If Spider-Man didn't act quickly, he'd probably die. He glanced up at the three approaching goons and eyed them down, trying to process as much information as possible. They were each carrying bulky, gun-shaped weapons of various sizes—Peter recognized them immediately as some Toomes' Chitauri-hybrid-superweapons.

One of the thieves, Sting, noticed Peter carefully eying his weapon and cocked his head to the side. "These? Oh, you're probably familiar with these," he said. "Wanna see what it does?"

Peter swallowed thickly. Ever since Toomes' weapon-selling empire had collapsed, a good potion of Spider-Man's time had been dedicated to safely recovering all of the various weapons Toomes' had sold to various crime lords during his reign. Peter was, unfortunately, all too familiar with the various alien weapons. More than once, he'd found himself of the receiving end of a painful laser blast. He shuddered at the memory.

"Ah, honestly? No, not really," Peter admitted.

Sting snorted. "Too bad Spider-Brat," An intense, white-hot beam of energy exploded from the barrel of the weapon. Spider-Man leapt out of the way. However, he was unable to completely avoid blast, which caught him in the leg and sent him sprawling across the cold pavement.

"Aw, come on man! I just washed this suit!" Spider-Man whined as he leapt back to his feet and brushed himself off.

Peter ran towards the three creepy, gas-masked hoodlums and dove to the ground, shooting a web at Sting's legs as he slid pas. He propelled himself to his feet, leapt in the air, and attached the other end of the web to the bottom of a fire escape ten feet off the ground. Before he had time to process, Sting was swept off of his feet and left hanging upside down in the air, the gun falling to the ground with a heavy clatter.

Peter pushed himself off of a wall and round-house kicked Mammoth in the face, sending him flying backwards.

"I'm impressed, Spider-Man," Boss-Man said, readying his weapon. He fired three shots of some sort of solidified light. Peter expertly managed to escape the shots, which pierced the wall behind him like arrows.

"Whoa!" Peter could help but exclaim. "What is _that_?"

Boss-Man ignored the questions and fired off another four shots. Peter, once again, somehow managed to escape the weapon's deadly blow. "Karen, ricochet web!" he exclaimed. He fired the web off of the wall which bounced back and caught Boss-Man square in the face. Immediately, he dropped the weapon, his hands flying up to pull the webbing away. Peter wasted no time in webbing him to the wall.

"Peter, on your left," Karen notified, calmly.

Sting had somehow managed to free himself landed to Peter's left with ninja-like grace. Peter's reflexes, however, were much too fast for him. As soon as Sting was up on his feet, Peter fired a web at him, which plastered him against the wall, just like his boss.

Peter sighed in relief. "Karen," Spider-Man began, breathing heavily as he knelt beside the injured man on the ground. "How is he?"

"His vital signs are getting weaker. His wounds are extensive but not life-threatening," Karen said calmly.

Peter's whole body relaxed at the news.

"Hey, Spider-Man!"

Peter turned around. Mammoth grabbed the teenager's arm, roughly pulled him to his feet, and suddenly struck him in the shoulder with a gauntlet-type weapon clad around his arm.

Peter went flying backwards and slammed against the back wall of the alley. He howled in pain and gripped his shoulder. Pain radiated through his body and suddenly he felt colder than ice. His bones ached. He began shaking violently. The weapon Mammoth was using was unlike anything Peter had ever encountered before.

"Wh-what was that?" Peter asked for the third time that evening.

Unlike his boss, Mammoth was polite enough to give Peter an answer. "Ice-puncher," he said simply.

A feeling of horror crept through Peter's chest. On instinct, he glanced down at his shoulder, which was clearly dislocated from the impact of the blow. The pain radiating from the wound was both excruciating and somehow numb. He could feel the coldness radiating through the suit.

Mammoth was towering over him now, his head cocked sideways. With the ghostly gas-mask, his appearance was horrifying. Peter felt a sudden urge to run away. He was so overcome by shock and pain that he couldn't think of anything to say. All he could do was sit there, helplessly staring up at the man who was going to kill him.

Would this really be the end of Spider-Man?

Peter couldn't help but chuckle, but it came out sounding strangled. His mind was completely numb. He tried to force himself to think up an escape plan, look for a way out, _anything,_ but his brain wouldn't work.

"But yer having a hard time thinking, ain't ya?" Mammoth asked. "That's 'cause a the cold. It's called hypothermia. Yer body's going into shock 'cause of how cold y'suddenly got. Feeling sleepy yet?"

Peter blinked sluggishly. That couldn't be right! He didn't _feel_ cold, anymore. Actually, he couldn't feel anything at all.

"I really hate to do this to you, Spider-Guy. I know you mean well but… well, we all got our orders," Mammoth said.

Peter felt oddly touched; Mammoth sounded genuinely apologetic. Everything felt sluggish and painful. His head hurt. His eyes were heavy. Peter Parker was _so tired._ Would death really be all that bad? Somebody important—Shakespeare or something—had said that death was like sleeping and sleep sounded really, _really_ nice.

And yet, there was part of him that didn't want to die. It made him feel sad (even though he wasn't really sure why.) Peter sighed and allowed his eyes to slip closed, his head falling limply against his chest. In what would be his final moments, Peter found his mind drifting off. Oddly enough, it wasn't Aunt May that he thought about, nor was it Tony Stark or Ned, or Uncle Ben or even his parents. In his last few moments, Peter found himself thinking about the little girl he had helped earlier that day. What was her name? Mandy? Tabitha? Lorraine? Eliza? Yes, that was it. Her name was Eliza. She hadn't been more than five or six years old.

Peter loved kids. He couldn't wait to grow up and be a dad someday. But if he died here, on the dirty ground of some alley way in New York, he'd never have that opportunity. He'd never be a dad, he'd never get married, he'd never fall in love. He'd never get to experience life. No more LEGOS, no more school dances, no more of Aunt May's pie, no more laughing, no more feeling loved, no more sleeping and waking up. That sent a dull pang of sadness radiating through his chest. It was enough motivation to force him to open his eyes and lift up his head.

 _C'mon Peter, c'mon Spider-Man. You gotta do this. You gotta think. You can do this. You can do this. C'mon. Think, Spider-Man!_

Except, there wasn't a way out this time.

Peter swallowed thickly. Numb panic flashed through his mind. He could barely make his cold limbs function. Karen, sensing his dropping body temperature, had turned on the suit's built-in heaters. But it was too late. It was over.

Spider-Man lost.

Mammoth raised his fist, prepared to end it all was suddenly there was a loud _CLANG!_ and Mammoth froze. His hands fell limp at his side and suddenly, he collapsed, completely unconscious. Standing behind Mammoth was the injured man the three creeps had attacked. He held a heavy metal pipe in his hand, having used it to knock Mammoth unconscious.

The injured man swayed, barely able to stay upright. "Spider-Man…" he gasped, his words hardly above a whisper. He dropped the pipe and clutched his side, which was bleeding heavily. "Are… are you alright?"

Peter blinked once, twice, three times, trying to make his brain function. The feeling was beginning to creep back into his skin, but his brain still felt foggy. His eyes were blurry and he was unable to focus on the man's face. His voice, however, sounded very, _very_ familiar.

Slowly, Peter began to move. It took a great deal of effort and every movement was agonizing, but he managed to pull himself into a standing position, leaning heavily against the wall. "I- fine. I'm fine. Thank you! You saved my life,"

The man grunted in response, nodding his head.

Peter rubbed his eyes and blinked again. The world began to slide back into focus. He gave his rescuer a long, hard stare and immediately recognized him. He gasped, his eyes wide, and his mouth hanging open.

Steve Rogers. Captain America.

"It's you…" Peter said dumbly. Before Steve could respond, however, his injuries became too much and he collapsed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hullo friends! I just wanted to thank all y'all for your support, it was overwhelming. Seriously, it means so much to me and I'm so glad y'all like the story. This chapter was actually a lot of fun to write, so I hope you enjoy!**

 **I especially wanted to say thank you to AquaDragonSilverFire, silverwolvesarecool, Modern Demigod Hero, and elisiumqueen for your wonderful reviews. Y'all are the best!**

 **I also wanted to say: My favorite part of writing is getting to interact with my readers. So, if there's anything you'd like to see in this story, drop a review with your suggestion and I'll make it happen! :)**

 **Love y'all!**

* * *

The first thing that flashed through Peter's mind was a veritable explosion of excitement that made him want to fling himself into out space and scream about how much he loved his life because _Captain freaking America just saved his life._ That excitement, however was quickly followed by an acute sense of horror. Peter Parker _idolized_ Captain America. Except for Iron Man, there was nobody on the planet who was cooler than Captain America. But to see his hero in _that_ state—weak and bloodied, laying unconscious on the ground—was a traumatizing experience.

He was beginning to feel the warmth creep back into his body, but his mind was still hazy. He could hardly concentrate because there was so much going on: so much noise, so much movement, so much _agonizing pain._ Peter had never dislocated a joint before and he never wanted to again. The slightest movement, the smallest spasm of his muscles made him want to scream. Not to mention the white-hot burning feeling that told Peter there was more to his injury than met the eye.

Sirens screamed in the distance. Even with all of the pain and emotions running through his head, there was one clear thought that stood out above the noise: Get out of there.

Captain America, he knew, was a fugitive. The entirety of the United States saw the former hero as a criminal. If the police showed up and found him, he'd probably end up locked away forever. That thought didn't sit well with the teenager.

Ignoring the pain, the confusion, and the general feeling of numbness that seemed to encompass his entire being, Peter pulled the unconscious super-soldier up over his good shoulder in a messy sort of fireman's carry, and stumbled out of the alley way. He had no idea where he was going (or how he was even still standing, let alone single-handedly carrying a massive super-hero over his shoulder like a sack of flour) but he trusted his feet to take him where he needed to go. He was completely on autopilot.

The next twenty minutes were lost on him. He blinked and suddenly he was standing outside of his apartment building. Tessa the dog came excitedly bolting from the shadows and barked happily. However, when she noticed Spider-Man obviously in pain and struggling under the weight of Steve Rogers, she sat down and whimpered.

"It's okay, girl, don't worry about me," Peter grunted, trying to reposition his hold on Captain America in a way that wouldn't make him feel like his shoulder was exploding. Luckily, adrenaline, super-human spider-powers, and sheer willpower were nature's best painkillers. There was no pain, anymore. Actually, there was no feeling at all. Just an instinctual, primal need to get upstairs to safety.

Spider-Man stared up at the massive building and groaned. There was no way he could climb that building in the state he was in! Not to mention with an all-American hero in tow. So, instead, he slipped inside and took the elevator up to his floor, praying that no one would be outside at that ungodly hour and see him. Luckily, whatever benevolent being was listening was merciful and Peter managed to evade notice. Unfortunately, the door to his apartment was locked and the key was still in his backpack on top of the building. Peter wanted to scream in frustration and exasperation. However, he lacked the energy, so, instead, he let out a string of explicatives that would've made Cap's ears fold inside out, and kicked the door open (promising to replace the lock later.) He dropped the super-soldier onto the couch in the living room and collapsed.

As soon as the weight was lifted from his shoulders, the pain returned with a vengeance. Whimpering, Peter curled up in a little ball on the floor. _Just breathe, Pete. You can do this._

After several minutes of casually wandering though the seven circles of Hell, the pain finally began to ebb away. It didn't disappear completely, but it was bearable. At least he could think again.

Beneath the pain, the overstimulation of his senses, the excitement, and the horror, there was a deep sense of confusion that seemed to permeate Peter's whole being.

"What am I even supposed to do?" he asked himself, so quietly that Karen didn't catch it. Or perhaps the AI knew simply that it wasn't a question to be answered. The question hung in the air unanswered and open-ended and Peter had no idea how to proceed.

"Incoming call from Tony Stark," Karen said suddenly.

A wave of panic washed over Peter like a tidal wave. Tony Stark, as much as he looked up to the man, was definitely the last person he wanted to talk to right now. "What? Karen, no! Why is he calling?"

"I am programmed to automatically notify Mr. Stark if any of your vital signs become critical," Karen responded. "Answering call,"

"Wait, Karen, no—Oh, hey Mr. Stark!" Peter said, plastering on a weak smile as Tony's face appeared in the monitor.

Normally, Tony immediately would've reprimanded him for calling him "Mr. Stark" instead of "Tony", but instead he cut straight to the chase. "What happened, Peter?" he asked. His voice was firm but caring, and his face somehow looked both angry and worried at the same time.  
"What do you mean, Mr. Stark?" Peter asked, part of him hoping Tony would leave him alone if he played dumb.

Tony, however, was _far_ too smart for that. He rolled his eyes. "Cut the crap, kid. Your core body temperature dipped down to 85 degrees. What happened?" the inventor demanded, his voice harder than steel.

Peter ducked his head, feeling a little bit guilty. "It's nothing Mr. Stark, I swear. There were these three guys—they were using those Chitauri weapons, and this one guy had a sort of gauntlet type of thing. I've never seen anything like it before. He hit me with it and suddenly everything got really cold. I managed to take the guy out, though, and Karen warmed me up with those cool suit-heaters—Oh, thanks by the way. Those things are really nice. Anyways, I'm alright now, I promise," he said. He deliberately left out the part about being rescued by Steve Rogers; yes, the WWII veteran was technically a criminal and Peter knew that he was probably supposed to turn him in, but there was a nagging feeling in his gut that told him to hold his tongue. It felt wrong to turn on the man who'd saved his life not more than a half-an-hour earlier!

"You got cold?" Tony asked, his face unreadable. A whole slew of emotions was churning inside of the master invertor's mind. Yet, he chose to ignore them all.

"Yeah, it was some kind of temperature reducer. I swear, if felt like it sucked all the heat right out of me," Peter explained.

Tony paused for a moment, thinking deeply. He lifted up his head and studied Peter very carefully. "Well, your core temperature is back up to 95 and still rising., so that's good. You sure you feel okay, kid? Dizziness? Confusion? Muscle pain? Stiff joints? Anything?"

"No, I feel fine. I just feel a little chilled," Peter lied. Truth be told, he felt absolutely miserable, like he'd been crush by a parade of cement trucks falling from the sky. He didn't, however, want to make Tony suspicious, so he added: "My shoulder's dislocated and that hurts pretty bad,"

Tony raised an eyebrow. "Your shoulder's dislocated?" he asked. Dislocated joints were certainly not a life-threatening condition, but Tony couldn't seem to turn off the alarm bells that were firing off inside of his head.

Peter nodded. "Er… yeah. I mean, he hit me pretty hard so…" he trailed off, unsure of what else to say.

"That's pretty serious, kid. That's not something you can fix yourself," Tony said.

Peter's eyes went wide. Crap. He'd forgotten all about that. "But I was just gonna head up to the ER or something," he said sheepishly.

Tony narrowed his eyes. He felt like there was something that Peter wasn't telling him and he didn't like that feeling. "Look, do you need me to come down there and help you out? Well, I mean, _I_ won't be there but I can send Happy or one of my suits down to give you a lift," He had no intention of letting the kid fend for himself, but he thought he'd at least give Peter the option of asking for help himself.

"No!" Peter answered quickly, too quickly. "I mean, um, no thank you. Really, I'm fine, Mr. Stark, I swear. There's a big hospital like five miles from my house. I was just gonna call a cab or something. I promise, I'm okay," he said, flashing a convincing smile for good measure.

Tony's frown deepened. "Why a cab? Isn't Aunt May taking you?"

Crap. Crap. Crap. "She's actually out of town at a wedding," Peter admitted.

"I see," Tony said. He raised an eyebrow. "And how are you planning of getting home after they pump you full of painkillers?" he asked.

Peter swallowed thickly. He really hadn't though about it.

Tony's face remained expressionless, but Peter didn't miss the ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lip. "Yeah, that's what I thought. I'm sending Happy up to take you to the hospital. He won't be able to make it until tomorrow morning, though, so I want you to wrap that shoulder, ice it, and take a couple of ibuprofen. Understand?" Tony asked, inwardly cringing at how fatherly he sounded.

Peter gave a curt nod. "Yes, Mr. Stark,"

Tony rolled his eyes. "How many times to I have to tell you, Peter, call me _Tony_ ,"

Peter released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Oh yeah, sorry. I, um, it won't happen again," His eyes flickered towards the injured super-soldier laying on his couch. He was itching to end the phone call so he could help the man.

"What are you doing out so late?" Tony asked, suddenly. "Don't you have a curfew?"

Peter jumped, startled. "Aunt May isn't home, remember?" he said, flashing a cheeky smile.

Tony snorted. "Whatever you say, kid. When she gets back, tell her I said hello. And listen, if you need any help call me or Happy. Actually, call Happy first. Okay, kid?"

Peter nodded dutifully. "Yes, Mr. St- Tony. Thank you,"

Tony gave him one more scrutinizing look then his features softened and he said: "Happy'll be there around 10 a.m. tomorrow. Get some rest, kid," Then he ended the call. Peter sighed and collapsed back against the floor, pulling off the mask. "He's gonna kill me if he finds out…" he mumbled, glancing in Captain America's direction.

So… now what?

He crawled over to Steve Roger's prone from and knelt down beside him. Excitement bubbled up inside the teen's chest but it quashed it quickly: now wasn't the time to fanboy over the fact that one of his idols was in his house. Without wasting any more time, Peter slipped the mask back over his head and asked: "What are his injuries, Karen?"

"Scanning," the AI responded. She was silent for a moment, then Steve's vitals appeared in the mask's display. "Blunt force trauma to the head resulting in lacerations and a concussion; deep lacerations across the chest and torso; puncture wound in the left thigh—minor damage to the quadriceps sustained; broken radius bone, right side, clean break; rib fracture in six ribs; severe freezer burn; hemorrhaging; frostbite; and hypothermia,"

Peter stood frozen for a long time, trying to process all of the information Karen had given him. He felt like his brain was buffering. He'd watched enough House, Scrubs, and Grey's Anatomy that on a normal day, he'd know exactly what she was talking about. Today however, was not a normal day. Today sucked. His head still felt like somebody had picked his brain out through his nose (kinda like the ancient Egyptians did—thanks history class) and filled the empty cavity with sand.

"…Okay, erm, thanks Karen," he said, sounding (and feeling) unsure.

"You didn't understand any of that, did you?" Karen said. Her voice was steady and unwavering and she didn't sound irritated in the slightest. Peter was glad that she was always so patient with him. Then again, he was a robot after all. Could robots be impatient? Peter shook his head. That was a question for another day.

"Yeah, no. Not really," Peter admitted. His hand's hovered over the Captain's body, unsure of how to proceed but desperate to do _something_.

"I can walk you through it," Karen said.

Peter felt an unexpected wave of relief wash over him. "Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good. Do that,"

"Start by removing his shirt and pants—that will give you better access to the injures," Karen directed.

Peter bolted upright almost immediately. " _What?!_ " he screeched.

"Start by removing his shirt and pants—that will give you better access to the injures," Karen said again.

"You want me to _strip him_?" Peter cried, feeling his whole face burn.

"It will give you better access to the injuries," Karen said a third time.

"Yeah, okay, I heard you the first time," Peter said.

"I recommend cutting the clothing off with scissors to reduce the amount of movement," the AI said casually.

Peter buried his masked face in his hands. "Yeah, okay, whatever you say," he muttered, sounding thoroughly unconvinced. He reluctantly dragged himself into a standing position and stumbled into the kitchen, returning with a pair of scissors.

Peter took a deep breath. "It's only awkward if you make it awkward. It's only awkward if you make it awkward," he repeated.

First, he set to work on Steve's jacket and shirt. They didn't look very expensive (they were actually somewhat ratty-looking) much to Peter's relief. With the shirt gone, the teen couldn't help but stare in abject horror. The good captain's whole chest was mottle with bruises, cuts and scrapes. There was a horrifying-looking burn across Steve's torso, the sight of which made Peter gag a little. The flesh in the area was raw and waxy, red on the outside and gradually turning blue, with the innermost portion being an appalling shade of black. No doubt, Steve had come into contact with Mammoth's ice-puncher. Peter swallowed thickly and shuddered. He wondered if his shoulder looked just as mauled.

When he was finally able to tear his gaze away, he set to work on cutting away the Captain's pants. "Please be wearing underwear…" Peter mumbled.

Luckily, Steve was, in fact, wearing a pair of boxers underneath. Peter then pulled of the captain's shoes and socks and examined his patient in full. He did his best not to think about the ridiculousness of the situation and focus on the task at hand.

"There's a puncture wound on his left thigh that's bleeding heavily. Karen said gently.

"Yeah, okay, I can see that," Peter said. He wasn't normally a squeamish guy, but this was his hero after all. The sight made his stomach roll. "How do I fix it?" he asked. Luckily, most of the bleeding had stopped (hallelujah for soldier-serum super-healing) which made Peter's job much easier.

"Clean the wound with warm water and hydrogen peroxide. Then, wrap the wound tightly with a clean bandage.

"Okay. Okay, I can do this," Spider-Man said. He left for the bathroom and came back with a wet washcloth and a first-aid kit. Then, he set to work. Slowly, Karen guided him through the process of cleaning and dressing each one of the soldier's wounds. She even helped him set and wrap Steve's broken arm. ("Karen, how do you set a bone?" "I would highly recommend leaving professionals to do that," "Yeah, but if he goes to the hospital, they put him in jail! C'mon, Karen. Pleeeeaaassee?") The sickening crunching sound and Steve's unconscious scream just about made Peter lose his lunch.

Finally, after nearly an hour, the ordeal was over. After finding a blanket and carefully draping it over the super-soldier, Peter slunk to his room where he got out of the Spider-Man suit and crawled into bed.

A sudden wave of dizziness and nausea overcame the teen and he curled up in a tiny ball, hugging his knees and with one hand and gripping his head with the other. "Today sucks," he complained to no one in particular as he rode out the pain. He spent another half an hour completely unmoving. When the pain finally ebbed away, he dragged himself out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom to care for his own wounds.

He took one look at his mangled shoulder (which, as he expected, was just as horrifically burned as Captain America's chest) and his knees buckled. He spent the next several minutes violently throwing up everything he'd ever eaten since the day he was born, into the toilet bowl. After that, he lay on the cold floor of the bathroom, shivering miserably. He whimpered softly and wished, with every fiber in his whole being that Aunt May was there with him. She was always so kind and gentle and she always knew how to make him feel better when he was miserably sick. Seriously, she was the best mom in the whole world.

After what felt like years, Peter finally felt well enough to drag himself back to his room. He had no intention of wrapping his shoulder anymore (sorry Tony.) It was nearly 5 a.m. now, and all he wanted to do was sleep. He crawled back into bed, slid under the covers and had just about drifted off when a sudden thought bust forth into his tired brain.

"CRAP!" Peter shouted, sitting up. "Happy's gonna take me to the hospital tomorrow! I can't just leave Captain America in my house all alone! What if he wakes up!" Peter exclaimed, running his good hand through his hair. Then, he had an idea. He swung himself out of bed, stumbled over to his desk, and retrieved his phone. Then, he called the only person who could possibly be of any help in this situation.

No answer.

He called again.

Again, no answer.

Peter was undeterred. He must've called nearly a dozen times before someone finally answered.

"Dude. It's like, 5 a.m. What do you want?" came a tired, stuffed-up sounding voice on the other line.

"Ned!" Peter exclaimed, happily. "Ned, I need your help. It's like super important. How are you feeling?"

"Tired," Ned deadpanned on the other line.

Peter sighed. "Okay, yeah, but are you still sick?"

"A little. I feel better, though," Ned responded.

"Dude, that's great!" Peter exclaimed.

"Why are you still awake?" Ned asked with a yawn. "Is it like a Spider-Man-thing that you don't need to sleep anymore? Can spiders sleep? Do you think spiders can dream?"

"What? No, I don't know. Ned, listen. I need your help. I know it's super early, but this is really important. It's like, Spider-Man level important. I need my man in the chair," Peter said.

There was a pause and some shuffling on the other line. "I'm listening," Ned said, sounding more awake.

"Okay, I need you to be at my house tomorrow at 8, okay?" Peter asked.

"Why?" was Ned's first response.

Peter sighed, a little exasperated. He was exhausted and he just wanted to go to bed. "I swear, I'll explain everything tomorrow. I just need you to be here at 8 a.m. sharp, okay? Can you do that?"

"Yeah, dude. Hey, wait, what if my mom says that I need to do my chores first?" Ned asked.

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose. "Then tell her that I'll help you do them tomorrow night. Look, I gotta go, man. But I'll see you at 8, okay?"

"Yeah, okay. That sounds awesome. See you tomorrow! Wait—should I bring that LEGO TARDIS we've been building?"

Peter paused for a moment to consider it. "Yeah. Yeah, bring that," After all, if Captain America stayed asleep, then it might get boring. It was definitely a good idea to bring something to do.

"Okay. See you tomorrow Peter!" Ned exclaimed and hung up.

Peter sighed wearily and collapsed onto the bed, gritting his teeth as the movement jostled his shoulder. What on earth had he gotten himself into?

* * *

 **Hope y'all enjoyed!**

 **Also, here is a snippet of dialog for chapter 3, just to get y'all PUMPED because I'm super excited about it.**

"Dude. Captain America is half-naked and laying on your couch. On _Spider-Man_ 's couch. This is like some kind of epic fanfiction. Except it's not fanfiction. It's real life and I'm a part of it," Ned rambled.

Peter gave him a confused, sideways glance. "What?"

"Captain America is so ripped. He has the face of an angel. A genetically enhanced angel," Ned breathed.

Again, Peter made a face. "Dude, is now really the time for that?"

Ned, however, seemed to ignore everything that Peter was saying. "Listen, I'm not super religious, but I think we should say a prayer. Like, right now. Just to tell God thank you for letting our lives be like this,"

Peter face-palmed. Bringing Ned was a horrible idea.


	3. Chapter 3

Okay, first of all, I want to apologize for how long y'all had to wait. My goal is to post a new chapter once or twice a week, and I'm sorry that so much time has passed. To be honest though, the last few weeks have been a little rough. I just started college and I've been struggling with depression. In short, I simply didn't have the energy to write anything.

But worry not! I managed to pull my life together and get chapter three up and running. In all honestly, dialog is my weak spot. So it's really important that y'all tell me what you think of the conversation between Ned and Peter. Sometimes, I worry that it lacks substance...

Also, I wanted to thank all of you for your support. Seriously, I am BLOWN AWAY. You have absolutely no idea how much y'all have helped pick me up when I was down and out the last few weeks.

I especially want to thank HazelCookie, Modern Demigod Hero, AquaDragonSilverFire, Daughter of StaticQuake, Unajet (whoever you are, you sneaky anon you), AraneltheSilvan, Demi-God Ginny, jayley, elisiumqueen, Steefwaterbutter (twice, dude you're awesome), littlemissliketofight, Wolfy76398 (also twice, you rock), Tori of Lorien (your comment was amazing. seriously I love the critique, it helps me improve my writing, and I seriously appreciate all the time and effort you put into that comment. It meant the world to me.), SummerMistedDragon, and cnocys (actually, it was your comment yesterday that kicked my butt and finally made me finish chapter three, so thank!)

Seriously, y'all are the best. And also thank you to everybody who has favorited and followed this story. You guys are my heroes. And I mean it.

Enjoy!

* * *

 _Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!_

Peter awoke to a heavy, repetitive banging noise that somehow sounded muted and far away. Yet, at the same time, it was just loud and jarring enough that it made his head feel like a tiny wood nymph was trying to split it open with a meat clever.

His whole body ached. He was somewhat surprised to find himself laying on his bed in an _extremely_ awkward angle. With a grunt, he attempted to adjust himself into a more comfortable position. Suddenly remember why he'd been sleeping so awkwardly in the first place: white hot pain exploded through his shoulder and he screamed.

Ah, yes. That. He'd forgotten about that.

Peter's mind felt hazy and he struggled to remember why he was in so much pain. What exactly had happened last night? There were images; fragments of memory that flashed before his eyes but nothing concrete. It was like trying to remember a dream.

Suddenly, his phone rang. The headache returned. Distantly, Peter wondered if blood was pouring out of his ears, yet. With a groan Peter grabbed it and checked it. Ned? Why on earth was Ned calling? "Hello?" he answered wearily.

"Dude!" came Ned's overly loud voice on the other line. It was far too loud for Peter's liking. "Are you okay? I heard a scream. Is there an evil villain in your house? Should I break down the door? –Oh. Actually, it already looks open. Should I come in and kick butt?"

Peter pulled himself into a sitting position. What was Ned talking about? "What?" Peter asked. "Where even are you right now?"

"Uh, outside of your house. I've been knocking for like, 20 minutes. You asked me to come over, remember?" Ned asked. His voice sounded stuffed up. He was still sick and somewhat irritated that Peter had made him sit outside for so long. After all, it was _cold._

"I did?" Peter asked. "…I did. Oh. _Oh_ ," Suddenly everything came rushing back. The patrol, the Three Stooges from Hell, Captain America, the dislocated shoulder, _Captain flipping America._

The phone slipped from Peter's grasp and landed on the floor in a clatter. That part had to have been a dream, right? There was no way that _Captain freaking America_ was in his house, right? Cautiously, Peter stepped out into the hallway and cast a discerning glance towards the living room. There, laying on the couch, just where Peter had left him, was Captain America. Steve Rogers, Captain America, was in his house. _In. His. House._

"Holy crap, holy crap, holy crap," Peter mumbled, running a hand through his hair. He was suddenly filled with excitement and nervous energy. The pain, immediately, was forgotten. When he was younger, he practically _worshipped_ the Avengers, with Iron Man and Captain America being at the very top of his list. Long before becoming Spider-Man (and more than a few times after becoming Spider-Man) he would bounce around the house pretending the Chitauri were attacking, and it was up to him to save the Avengers and the world.

Now, suddenly, it was as if all of his childhood fantasies were coming to life. First, Germany. Then, the whole "Toomes Incident" (which was surprisingly less fun than it was in his dreams.) Now, Captain flipping America was in his house, on his couch. He'd brought Captain America home last night. _The_ Captain America. The whole thing felt surreal.

"Captain America's in my house. Captain America's in _my_ house," he breathed. Peter's eyes went wide when one, lurking, rather unfortunate memory surfaced from the previous night. "I stripped Captain America," he said, overcome by a sudden urge to turn himself inside out, crawl in the world's deepest hole, and die. "I can't believe I did that! That's so _weird_! I mean, it was for medical-y stuff but what if he thinks it was creepy? Crap, crap, crap… Karen, what were you thinking?" he mourned.

While he was thinking out loud and talking to himself, Peter was stuck by a thought: "How do I even explain this to him?" he asked himself. "Uh, hey Mr. Rogers. I, uh, was walking home last night and you looked pretty hurt so I brought you back to my house," Peter thought it over and cringed. "No, no, no. I can't say _that_. That sounds way too stalker-y. I don't wanna sound stalker-y. Hey, Captain America. Sorry that Spider-Man ditched you last night. He had stuff to do but it's okay, because I—"

Peter was suddenly interrupted by a loud knock at the door. "Peter? Who are you talking to? Also, can I come in, now?"

Peter face-palmed. "Crap! Ned!" he exclaimed. He raced over to the door (cringing at both the sight of the broken lock, and the returning pain in his entire body) and carefully pulled it open. "Hey, man. I'm so sorry about that," he said, breathing heavily from the exertion of hauling cheek across the apartment.

Ned ignored the apology completely. Instead, his eyes fixed on Peter's hideously mangled shoulder. A hand flew to his mouth and his face contorted in a mixture of disgust and deep concern. "Holy crap! Peter, your shoulder! It looks like it got mauled by a venomous mother badger or something. What happened? Are you okay? Do you need to go to a hospital? What happens when a spider loses a limb? Does it regrow?" he demanded.

Peter, feeling somewhat uncomfortable under his friends gaze, shrugged (with his good shoulder) and brushed the comment off. "Yeah, it's nothing. I'm totally fine," He chose to ignore the spider comment, partly because they were ridiculous questions and partly because he was legitimately concerned about losing the arm. (It was unlikely, but still. Peter tended to be a worrier.)

Ned's eyes flickered up at Peter then returned to his shoulder. It was morbidly fascinating, like watching a train wreck: it was horrible to watch but he couldn't seem to stop looking. "Uh, I don't know if you've actually looked at yourself in the mirror lately, but _that_ isn't nothing. I mean, holy crap dude! Look, it's turning _black._ I don't think that's a good thing. I think you should go to a hospital, Peter. Seriously, you could be dying or something," Ned suddenly screwed up his face in deep concentration. "Do you have regenerative powers like the Doctor?"

Peter squeezed his eyes shut and, again, ignored the ridiculous question. "I know, I know. I know it's bad. Happy's coming to pick me up at 10 to take me to the hospital. But it's fine, I swear. I'm gonna get it taken care of,"

Ned, apparently satisfied with that answer, made a face of disgust and curiosity. "Like, how does that even happen?"

Peter sighed. "I got in a fight last night. There were these three guys in gas masks—"

"Dude, that's super sketchy. Never trust a guy in a gas mask," Ned interrupted. "Sorry, continue,"

"And, uh, one of the guys had this gauntlet-sorta-weapon. Remember that time at homecoming, when you saved my life from that guy with the shocker weapon?" Peter asked, trying to explain.

Ned nodded slowly. "Uh, yeah, bro. How could I forget that? That night was _sick_! I mean… except for Liz. It kinda sucked for her. But still, that was like the greatest night of my life. Also, expect for the porn thing. I got in a lot of trouble for that—"

"Anyways," Peter interrupted, a feeling of guilt tightening around his stomach. It was a familiar feeling that always seemed to appear whenever Liz was mentioned. He really did feel bad about the whole thing… Shaking his head he pushed the feeling aside. "It was kinda like that. Except instead of shocking things, it froze them,"

Ned narrowed his eyebrows, thinking. "How did it do that? Liquid nitrogen? Or do you think it was some kind of Chitauri technology?"

Again, Peter shrugged. "I dunno. I mean, all three of the guys were using weapons that Toomes had manufactured, so probably Chitauri technology. Anyways, he hit me in the shoulder pretty hard,"

Ned's eyes widened. "Whoa. Did you get 'em?" he asked.

Peter smirked. "Of course I got 'em, dude. I'm Spider-Man. What do you expect?" He accidentally moved his shoulder wrong and grimaced. Peter suddenly remembered the reason why he'd invited Ned over in the first place. He shifted uncomfortably. "So, um, listen. I need you to do me a huge favor," he said hesitantly.

"Uh, sure?" Ned responded, sounding equally hesitant. "It's not gonna be another bomb, is it?"

"No, no. Not that. I, um… I need you to babysit for me," As soon as the words left his mouth, Peter immediately regretted how they sounded. Babysit? Really?

Ned narrowed his eyes. "Babysit?" he echoed. Peter could see the gears turning behind Ned's eyes. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Do you have kids? Did you lay eggs? I thought you said you couldn't lay eggs? Can I help you name them?"

This was getting absurd. "What?" Peter asked, screwing up his face in a mix of confusion and a bit of disgust. "No! No, Ned, I can't lay eggs. We've been over this,"

"Oh," Ned responded simply. "Did you get a dog or something?" was his next best guess.

 _An all American golden retriever._ Peter's brain interjected immaturely. "Er, no. Listen, Ned. I swear, I'll explain everything. But you gotta promise me that you won't freak out. Okay?" Peter said, sucking in a breath.

Ned stared at his friend with a blank expression. "Peter. How long have you known me for?" he asked.

"What?" Peter asked, taken aback by the sudden, seemingly irrelevant question.

"How long, Peter?" Ned repeated.

Peter wracked his brain. "I dunno dude!" he cried, a little exasperated. "Since, like, the third grade. So… what, seven years? I don't know!"

Ned nodded calmly. "And in those seven years since we've been friends, have I _ever_ been one to freak out?"

This time, it was Peter's turn to give Ned a blank expression. "Yes," he deadpanned.

Ned's whole countenance seemed to wilt. "What? No. C'mon Peter! I am a calm, cool, and collected guy. Do you really think so little of me?"

Inwardly, Peter sigh and began to regret calling Ned over. He was _way_ too tired for this. Normally, he had no problem being with Ned. After all, they were best friends. But now, the pain and sleeplessness were making him rather… irritable. "Okay, okay, I'm sorry. Just… follow me, okay?" he pleaded. Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and slowly walked over to couch in the living room. Every muscle in his body was tense. Why was he so nervous about this? After all, Ned was someone he could trust.

The young man in question followed closely behind his friend, watching the other carefully. Peter had been acting strangely all morning and Ned found it a bit concerning. "Hey, are you alright? You seem a little tense. If you want, my mom has these awesome rose-scented bath-bombs—" the sentence died on Ned's lips. Whatever it was that he was about to say was thrown out the window when he saw _who was laying on Peter's couch._

Ned gripped Peter's arm (his good one, luckily.) "Dude. _Dude_ ," he breathed. "Is that… I mean, that can't really be… dude, is that Captain America?" Ned was almost afraid to ask. It seemed to good to be true.

The Avenger in question remained in the exact same state he was left in with only minor improvements: pale and injured. The wounds seemed to be overwhelming the Super Soldier Serum: it was taking an unusually long time for Steve to heal.

A sudden uncomfortable feeling washed over Peter. "Yes," he responded dutifully with an awkward cough.

Ned's mouth fell open and he stared shamelessly at the former Avenger laying on Peter's couch. "Peter… I need you to do me a favor,"

Peter narrowed his eyes. "Depends on what it is," he said warily.

"Pinch me, 'cause I think I'm dreaming," Ned said.

Peter released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He didn't know why he'd been so nervous about letting Ned in on the secret. Honestly, what had he expected Ned to do? Did he think Ned was going to freak out and call the FBI or social services or whoever it is you notify when your best friend is harboring a wounded war-criminal in his living room?

"Yeah, he, uh, saved my life last night," Peter responded, rubbing the back of his neck.

Ned swiveled around and stared at Peter as if his friend had suddenly sprouted wings and was ascending into heaven. "He saved your life?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Look, Ned, it's really no big deal. I mean, come on. He's a superhero," Peter said. As much as he wanted to join Ned in the "Fanboying Festival of the Century" he was far too exhausted, both physically and emotionally. The last few hours had been some of the most exciting, terrifying hours of his entire life and all he wanted to do was go back to bed.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Peter, no big deal? This is Captain America. _Captain America!_ " Ned exclaimed, as if repeating the name made his point more valid. "This is the greatest day of my life,"

Peter dragged himself over to a chair and sat down while Ned continued to ramble.

"Dude. Captain America is half-naked and laying on your couch. On _Spider-Man_ 's couch. This is like some kind of epic fanfiction. Except it's not fanfiction. It's real life and I'm a part of it," Ned rambled.

Peter gave him a confused, sideways glance. "What?"

"Captain America is so ripped. He has the face of an angel. A genetically enhanced angel," Ned breathed.

Again, Peter made a face. "Dude, is now really the time for that?"

Ned, however, seemed to ignore everything that Peter was saying. "Listen, I'm not super religious, but I think we should say a prayer. Like, right now. Just to tell God thank you for letting our lives be like this,"

Peter face-palmed. Bringing Ned was a horrible idea.

"What if Captain America wakes up and takes you in as his underling in gratitude?" Ned asked.

Peter sighed. "Ned, I really don't think that's gonna happen,"

"That would mean that both Iron Man and Captain America would be your mentors. You guys would be like some kind of super family. With Captain America and Iron Man as the super dads and you as the little super son. They would be super husbands or something," Ned rambled.

" _What?_ " Peter asked.

Ned didn't respond. For a moment, all he could do was stare at the injured hero laying in front of him. Then, his face suddenly lit up. It was as if his brain finally started to function again and he could process actual thought instead of senseless drabble. "Do you have any idea what this means? Dude, we gotta tell somebody. I mean, this could be huge for us! Nobody'd ever bully us again!" he said excitedly.

Peter had been a little bit distracted by the constant, radiating pain, and had been having a hard time concentrating on whatever the heck Ned was saying. However, as soon as he mentioned telling someone, Peter's head shot up so fast he almost gave himself whiplash. "What? Ned, no. _No_. We can't tell anybody," he said, his voice taking on a deadly serious tone.

Ned made a face, startled by the sudden change in Peter's demeanor. "Why not?"

"Because he's a criminal! If we tell somebody might call the police and lock him up," Peter explained.

Ned wrinkled his nose and stared at Peter with a curious expression. "You don't really believe that, do you?" he asked carefully.

"Believe what?" Peter asked.

"That Captain America's some sort of bad guy now," Ned explained.

Peter ran a hand across his face and leaned against a wall, grimacing at the pain his shift in stance had caused. "To be honest, Ned, I dunno," he admitted. "I mean, I've seen the news and all—and, I mean, we fought him in Germany—"

This time, it was Ned's head that shot up. "Wait, what?"

Peter waved him off. He lacked the energy to go through the whole story. "I'll tell you some other time," he said. Then, switching topics he continued: "It's just… I can't believe that a guy like _Captain America_ would be a bad guy,"

Ned narrowed his eyes. "Do you think we can trust him?"

Peter bit his lip in uncertainty. "I mean, he saved my life…" he trailed off. _Can we trust him?_ That was the question of the century. Peter cast his eyes towards Steve's seemingly lifeless form. It was startling to see America's hero so still and fragile-looking. It made Peter feel uneasy.

"I trust him," Ned said suddenly.

Peter looked up, shaking the thoughts from his head. "You do?"

"C'mon, man. This is _Captain America._ Sure the news thinks he's a bad guy, but I'm pretty sure that the news thinks _everyone's_ a bad guy," Ned expressed. Suddenly his expression changed. "Wait… when you said that you needed me to babysit, is this what you meant?" he asked.

Peter cringed, once again deeply regretting using the word "babysit". "Uh… yeah," he said with a sheepish smile.  
Once again, Ned's eyes went wide. "You want me to babysit Captain America? In your house? Alone?" Ned asked.

Peter nodded. "Yep,"

"Me and Captain America. Alone. What if he wakes up?" Ned asked, panicked.

"I dunno, make conversation or something!" Peter exclaimed.  
"About what?" Ned cried.

"I dunno, you'll think of something. He's human, Ned. Just… get to know him or something. Ask him… ask him what his favorite color is," Peter said. He tried to sound confident while he said it, but he knew how bad it sounded as soon as he spoke.

Ned gave Peter the done-est expression Peter had ever seen. "His favorite color? Peter, are you kidding me?"

"Oh, come on Ned! I don't know! Just… whatever you do, don't tell him that I'm Spider-Man, okay?" Peter pleaded.  
"But what if he asks where he is or how he got here?" Ned asked.

"Then lie!" Peter exclaimed.

"I suck at lying, Peter, we've been over this like a billion times. Also, what do we do if Happy or Mr. Stark or somebody stays over?" he asked.

Peter froze. "What are you talking about?"

"Have you ever dislocated your shoulder before? It hurts like crap, so they pump you up with a butt-ton of drugs. You'll be high as a kite. And, I mean, if Aunt May isn't home, what if Mr. Stark or somebody insists on staying over here?" Ned asked.

Peter grit his teeth in frustration. Why hadn't he thought of that? He was just beginning to panic and lose hope when the idea stuck him like a bolt of lightning: "Easy. If they ask, I'll just say that you and your uncle are going to stay here with me,"

Ned screwed up his face, deeply confused. "My uncle?" he asked. Peter nodded his head towards Steve Rogers. "Oooohhhh," Ned said, a smile slipping across his face.

Peter returned the smile with a gracious, weary smile of his own. He felt as if an enormous emotional baggage had been lifted off of his shoulders. Everything was sorted out. Everything was going to be okay. Peter exhaled. "Listen, Ned, I'm gonna go lie down for a little while. Wake me up if you see Happy's car outside, okay? And really, dude. Thanks for everything. You're the best,"

Ned smirked. "C'mon Peter, what were you expecting? After all, I'm the man in the chair,"

Peter chuckled and stalked into his bedroom, leaving Ned alone with Steve Rogers.

* * *

Welp, everybody seemed to enjoy the last chapter preview so much so I thought I'd share another! Heads-up, for all of you who requested some Ned & Steve bonding time, your requests have been heard!

* * *

Ned admired himself in the mirror. The Spider-Man suit was surprisingly comfortable, movable and easy-to-wear despite how skin-tight it appeared. "I look so sick...!" he mumbled to himself. Yes, he knew that he probably wasn't supposed to be wearing the Spider-Man suit, but he simply couldn't help himself! It was just laying on the floor, practically asking to be picked up and tried on. Besides, Peter was in the hospital and what Peter didn't know couldn't hurt him.

"Hello. Who are you?"

Ned practically jumped out of his skin when the suit suddenly started talking to him. "I... um... uh... Ned. I'm Peter's friend. Who are you?" he asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

"I am an AI Mr. Stark designed to guide Peter after completing the Training Wheels protocol. Peter calls me 'Karen'," the kind-sounding-suit-woman responded in a calm, even voice.

"Woah, that's so cool!" Ned exclaimed. "Can you teach me how to fire webs and do cool Spider-Man stuff?" Ned asked, grinning like a kid on Christmas. 

"Unfortunately, you are not authorized to use those programs," the AI responded sympathetically.

Ned sighed dejectedly. "Yeah, I kinda figured... Thanks anyways, Karen,"

"My pleasure," Karen responded.

Ned paused for a moment, thinking. "Hey, Karen? Don't tell Peter, okay?" he asked. He turned away from the mirror and froze. Karen said something in response, but whatever it was, Ned wasn't listening.

Steve Rogers was propped up against the arm of the couch, awake, alert, and starting at Ned in a mix of confusion and amusement. The Super Soldier looked as bad as he felt: he was pale and sweaty, his hair was messy and unkempt, and he looked so exhausted that the bags under his eyes had bags.

Immediately, Ned pulled off the mask. "I'm not Spider-Man," he said dumbly.

Steve chuckled a little. "I can see that," he responded good-naturedly.

Ned's brain could barely function. He remembered the promise he'd made to Peter and blurted out: "Peter's not Spider-Man either,"

Steve frowned. "Who's Peter?" he asked, sounding unconvinced.

Ned blinked and mentally smacked himself. "Uh... he's... not Spider-Man," was all he could think to say.


	4. Chapter 4

_**#NOTDEAD**_

I bet all y'all gave up on me. Thought I'd just abandon this story, unfinished. NEVER. I'm back in the groove.

I can't thank you guys enough for all of the support you've given me in spite of my long absence.

Special thanks to SummerMistedDragon, Wolfy76398, cnocys, silverwolvesarecool, Unajet, toraneko-chan, I Am A Difference Maker, jayley, Krystal Fox, BeautifulKnight, Demi-God Ginny, usa123, bunyx, AraneltheSilvan, rightsideleft, elisiumqueen, Tori of Lorien, 10sBlueRose, BlackHawk2187 , TheMysteriousT, MugetsuPipefox, monkeybaby for your lovely reviews. You guys are my life blood!

Definitely be sure to check out: MugetsuPipefox, Tori-of-Lorien, usa123, BeautifulKnight, Krystal-Fox, jayley, toraneko-chan, Unajet, silverwolvesarecool, SummerMistedDragon. These lovely people are also writers. I've checked out their pages and a couple of their stories and, in my opinion, you ought to too! They're really quite brilliant.

Enjoy!

* * *

Peter rested his face on the door of Happy's car, staring out the window mindlessly. Happy found Peter's silence to be unusual and off-putting, although it was highly understandable. As much as he found the kid irritating, his usual, hyperactive banter would have been preferable to the pained silence, which was broken by the occasional moan when the car rounded a corner.

Happy was greatly relieved when he found out that Ned and his uncle would be staying with the kid (babysitting was definitely not how he wanted to spend his weekend) but he couldn't help but worry. It wasn't hard to see what Tony saw in Spider-Man: Peter was a good kid. It kind of broke Happy's heart to see him so bruised and battered.

Peter had spent the duration of the car ride trying to drift off, but thanks to the pain and his overactive mind, that wasn't going to be happening anytime soon. He just couldn't stop worrying. Had he made the right call? But what other options did he have? Peter Parker idolized Steve Rogers. What was he supposed to do? Betray him? Let him rot in prison? Give him up to the mercy of Tony Stark and the UN? At the end of the day, Peter was still just a kid—a fact which both Mr. Stark and Peter, himself seemed prone to forget at times. Peter had done what he, with his measly fifteen years of life experiences, had thought was right. So why did he feel so guilt?

"Hey, uh, Happy, the hospital's back that way," Peter commented, lifting his head as the exit flew past.

"We're not heading to that hospital," Happy responded curtly.

Peter screwed up his face and shifted a little bit. "We're not?" he asked.

"Tony Stark has other plans in mind for you," Happy responded vaguely.

Alarm bells were firing off in Peter's head. What kind of other plans did Tony have for him? Was Tony angry? Had he some how figured out that he was harboring the fugitive avenger in his living room? Was he going to yell at him? Was he going to tell aunt May? Was he going to take away the suit? Was he going to throw Peter in jail? Peter did not want to go to jail. He knew for a fact that he wouldn't do good in jail. Jail was a bad, bad place. It was cold and dark and small and made of concrete. Concrete is bad. Concrete is very, very bad. Concrete always made him feel small and trapped and cold and very, very afraid because suddenly it was dark and wet and he couldn't move, he couldn't breathe, he was being pinned down, and it was so heavy and help help help helphelphelphelp help help help help help help heLp heLP HELP! HELP ME! PLEASE SOMEBODY HELP ME!. Too heavy. Too heavy! SOMEBODY HELP ME! He was crushed! He was trapped! He was gonna die! He was gonna die!

"—Breathe, Peter!" Happy's voice suddenly pierced Peter's mind and the whole world came back into focus.

"Wh-what?" Peter asked, deeply confused. His chest hurt and his heart was racing. Weird. He felt like he'd been running. Why does that keep happening?

"I said breathe!" Happy snapped. He sounded irritated and angry, and that made Peter flinch, but his face was twisted in worry and concern and that made Peter feel confused and self-conscious.

"Kid, focus on what I'm saying and breathe!" Once again, Happy's voice broke through Peter's thoughts. Distracted much?

"I am breathing!" Peter snapped.

"I mean breathe slower!"

"…Oh," Peter said and lowered his head, feeling a little stupid.

"What was that?" Happy asked.

Peter shook his head and shrugged. "What do you mean?" he asked. Oh, he knew exactly what Happy wanted to know, but it was stupid and personal and really not important.

"Don't give me that kind of bull!" Happy snapped, increasing his hold on the steering wheel. "One minute you were fine, the next suddenly started freaking out and hyperventilating. It looked like some kind of panic attack,"

Peter swallowed nervously. Happy was onto him. "What? A panic attack? Ha, you gotta be kidding me, Happy. I'm Spider-Man. I don't get panic attacks," he responded confidently with an added cheeky grin.

Happy gave the little punk a hard, pointed glared. "Yeah and, lemme guess, the sky isn't blue today?"

Unfortunately, it was a clear day outside. Not a cloud in sight. So, yes, the sky was very blue today. Which, unfortunately meant Peter couldn't make a snappy remark about the sky being grey. He was silent for a long time before finally speaking. "Okay, yeah, so it was a panic attack," Peter admitted, sinking down into his seat. "But I hardly ever get 'em," he added.

Since becoming Spider-Man, Peter had been through a lot of crap. He'd seen his fair share of trauma and stress and he'd been absolutely fine. No flash-backs, no panic attacks, no nothing. He loved being Spider-Man. He loved the power, the adrenaline and, more than anything, he loved kicking butt and helping people. And, sure, he'd been scared for his life but never traumatized. But there was something about being trapped under several tons of concrete that just… broke him.

Becoming Spider-Man gave Peter freedom. He was the definition of a free-spirit. His spirit animal must've been some kind of high-flying bird because he needed to be free. Free to run and climb and swing around and more than anything else, he valued the idea of being able to make decisions for himself. He needed to have some sort of control in his life. He hated feeling helpless. It terrified him. It always had. And you don't get much more helpless than being trapped underneath a building. He couldn't move his arms or his legs. He'd been trapped. Sure, dying was scary, but helplessness was a whole other thing. Peter managed to neatly stuff the unwanted memory in one of the far corners of his mind but every once and a while it would rear it's ugly head: flashbacks, panic attacks, nightmares, the whole shebang.

"Does Tony Stark know about these panic attacks?" Happy asked.

"No," Peter responded simply. Peter hadn't told a soul about what had happened to him in that warehouse. Add that to the list of secrets he was keeping: secret identity, PTSD from a near-death experience, and a run-away Avenger sleeping on his couch. "Please don't tell him," Peter pleaded. "I don't want him looking down on me,"

Happy sighed. "Kid, he won't look down on you. How long have this been happening for?"

"A while," Peter responded vaguely, wanting to be uncooperative.

"How long is a while?" Happy probed.

"I'd really rather not talk about it," Peter stated simply. This conversation had the young hero on edge for two very different reasons: First, it was a sensitive subject. He didn't want to think to hard about it for fear of looking weak or, God forbid, having another attack. Second, and the all more important reason, he did not want Happy asking what had triggered this particular attack. Because how on earth was Peter supposed to explain that? 'Yeah, I was just thinking about jail because I'm harboring Captain America in my living room.' How about no?

"What are these other plans that Tony has in mind for me?" Peter asked, changing the subject.

Happy sighed, exasperated. If the kid was having panic attacks, then they needed to have a talk. It wasn't something Peter could keep secret forever. But right now was probably not the best time to reveal deep, dark secrets. After all, the kid was already in a world of hurt. No need to add emotional baggage on top of that. "He said he thought it might be better if you got checked out by a specialist up at the new tower instead of down here at the local hospital. Something about chemical reactions and spider-blood. I dunno. I didn't really understand what he was talking about anyways," Happy said gruffly, sounding a bit harsher than he'd intended.

Peter sighed and returned his head to the door of the car. Happy was clearly in a bad mood (wasn't he always?) but this time, Peter simply didn't have the energy to deal with it like he normally did. He just felt sort of… defeated.

Happy took note of Peter's suddenly silence and sighed. "Sorry, kid. Didn't mean to snap at 'cha. Rough night," he said simply.

"You're tellin' me," Peter mumbled.

The final hour or so of the drive was spent in total silence. When they finally arrived at the tower, Peter was escorted into a big lobby area and told to wait. Too tired to argue, Peter readily complied, sitting on one of the big, wide couched. He leaned his head against the armrest and groaned, closing his eyes. He was miserable.

"Peter!" a voice called, startling him from his dreams.

"Huh?" Peter asked and opened his eyes. Tony Stark, the Tony Stark was standing over him. "Mister Stark!" Peter exclaimed excitedly, jumping to his feet, the pain forgotten in the wake of his star-stuck excitement. No matter how many times he interacted with the Avenger, the sheer glee of associating with Iron Man never wore off.

Tony rolled his eyes. "C'mon, kid, it's Tony. We've been over this before. No more of this 'Mister Stark' stuff, understand?" he said firmly.

Peter nodded vigorously. Really, his only goal was to please Tony. After all, he was freaking Iron Man! Peter would probably never get over that. "Yes, sir," he said dutifully.

"None of this 'sir' crap, either. Makes me sound like my dad," Tony scolded and Peter nodded. "Now, let me see that arm of yours," he requested and Peter willingly complied.

Tony examined the arm carefully, shaking his head. "Those guys really did a number on you, kid," he said to himself.

"Mr—er, Tony. Listen, I hate to ask but… Why am I here?" Peter said.

"Happy didn't tell you?" Tony asked, raising an eyebrow.

Peter shook his head. "Well I mean, kinda, but it was vague. I didn't really understand what he meant,"

Tony sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. What was the point of relaying information if he just had to explain it all again? "Look, I've worked with a couple of people with super high-strung metabolisms before and I thought it would be best for you to get checked out by someone used to dealing with that kind of patient," he said simply.

Peter tilted his head in confusion. "And who's that?"

Tony couldn't help but smirk. "Who do you think, kid?"

Peter screwed up his face, deep in thought. "Wait. Whoa, whoa, whoa. You can't be serious," Peter breathed, the answer hitting him like a revelation from God Almighty. "You're telling me that my doctor is gonna be…" he hesitated for a moment, before whispering the name like is was something sacred. "…Doctor Banner?" he asked.

Tony grinned. He loved how easily star-struck this kid got. It was cute. "The one and only,"

"This is the greatest day of my life," Peter said without hesitation. For as much crap he gave Ned about being such a dorky fanboy, when it came right down to it, Peter was just as nerdy. "My doctor is the Hulk!" he exclaimed, probably louder than he should have.

Tony chuckled. "Just call him Bruce, kid. He doesn't really like talking about the Other Guy,"

Peter nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah, sure, of course. This is so cool! Three Avengers in one weekend!" he blurted out and froze. Uh oh. Did he jut out his little secret?

Tony made a funny face, shooting Spider-Man a look of confusion. "Three?" he asked, clearly confused.

Luckily, unlike Ned, Peter wasn't half bad at lying. "Yeah. You, Dr. Banner and… Black Widow. I saw her outside while I was coming in. I mean, I didn't really meet her. Like, we didn't talk or anything. But I saw her from a distance though, and I totally think it counts," he covered smoothly, flashing a sheepish grin. Inside, however, he was freaking out.

Tony eyed Peter carefully. He got the feeling (once again) that he was hiding something, but he didn't press. If this behavior kept up, however… there would definitely be some questioning. He shook his head. "Whatever you say, kid. Listen, I've got to catch a plane down to Hungary for some big meeting. Dr. Banner will be down in a little while to take you to the medical wing so hang tight, alright? And I want you to notify me when you get home. Happy told me Ned and his uncle are gonna be lookin' out for you, but I want'cha to keep me in the loop, okay?" he spoke and turned away. Then he froze, as if he'd had a sudden thought. "Oh. And, also, I'm benching you until your arm heals," he ordered.

Peter sat up a little straighter. "What? No way. That's not fair!" he protested.

"Life isn't fair, kid. This is for your health, okay? Karen's gonna tell me if you try to pull any funny business, so don't get any ideas," Tony warned. Then, after a moment of thought added, "And no using that old suit of yours, either. You're on lockdown, Peter,"

Peter sighed and flopped against the couch cushions. There was nothing he could do, so why fight it? Besides, he had… other problems to worry about. Like, for example, the unconscious super soldier his best friend was babysitting back home. "Yeah, okay. Whatever you say, Mr. Stark," Pater mumbled dejectedly.

"What did I just tell you—" Tony began.

"Tony. Sorry, Tony. I got it," Peter said, meeting the inventor's eyes with a confident smirk.

Tony shook his head. "Stay outta trouble!" he called as he walked away.

"No promises!" Peter responded cheekily. Tony merely waved him off.

Speaking of Steve and Ned, things back home were quickly becoming obnoxiously boring. Ned had done everything. He'd watched T.V., made himself breakfast, and watched Captain America sleep for a creepy amount of time, Ned was still incredibly bored but, luckily, there was one more thing he wanted to do…

Ned admired himself in the mirror. The Spider-Man suit was surprisingly comfortable, movable and easy-to-wear despite how skin-tight it appeared. "I look so sick...!" he mumbled to himself. Yes, he knew that he probably wasn't supposed to be wearing the Spider-Man suit, but he simply couldn't help himself! It was just laying on the floor, practically asking to be picked up and tried on. Besides, Peter was in the hospital and what Peter didn't know couldn't hurt him.

"Hello. Who are you?"

Ned practically jumped out of his skin when the suit suddenly started talking to him. "I... um... uh... Ned. I'm Peter's friend. Who are you?" he asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

"I am an AI Mr. Stark designed to guide Peter after completing the Training Wheels protocol. Peter calls me 'Karen'," the kind sounding, suit-woman responded in a calm, even voice. She sounded kinda hot.

"Woah, that's so cool!" Ned exclaimed. "Can you teach me how to fire webs and do cool Spider-Man stuff?" Ned asked, grinning like a kid on Christmas.

"Unfortunately, you are not authorized to use those programs," the AI responded sympathetically.

Ned sighed dejectedly. "Yeah, I kinda figured... Thanks anyways, Karen,"

"My pleasure," Karen responded. "Although I can share with you some videos Peter has filmed, if you would like.

"What kind of videos?" Ned asked excitedly. He was hoping for some butt-kicking, action-packed footage.

A screen popped up with several videos. Excitedly, Ned selected one. "Dude. I didn't know Peter could bake!" he exclaimed. "He should totally do a show on Food Network. It'd totally watch that. I bet my mom would too," he commented. Then, he paused for a moment, thinking. "Hey, Karen? Don't tell Peter, okay?" he asked.

"Noted," she commented.

"Karen, you're the coolest lady ever," he commented as he admired himself in the mirror once more. "Hey Karen, do you think you could you help me pick up hot chicks? I mean, like, senior girls? You're a woman. What do women like?" he asked. He turned away from the mirror and froze. Karen said something in response, but whatever it was, Ned wasn't listening.

Steve Rogers was propped up against the arm of the couch, awake, alert, and starting at Ned in a mix of confusion and amusement. The Super Soldier looked as bad as he felt: he was pale and sweaty, his hair was messy and unkempt, and he looked so exhausted that the bags under his eyes had bags.

Immediately, Ned pulled off the mask. "I'm not Spider-Man," he said dumbly.

Steve chuckled a little. "I can see that," he responded good-naturedly.

Ned's brain could barely function. "Holy crap, you're so cool," he breathed. Suddenly, he remembered the promise he'd made to Peter and blurted out: "Hey, Peter's not Spider-Man either,"

Steve frowned. "Who's Peter?" he asked, sounding unconvinced.

Ned blinked and mentally smacked himself. "Uh... he's... not Spider-Man," was all he could think to say.

Steve smiled gently. Whoever this kid was, Ned, he seemed like a good kid. Steve liked him. "How long have I been out for, solider?" he asked, humoring the star-struck kid. When he first woke up, he was, admittedly, terrified. He had no idea where he was, how he got there, or what year it was. Part of him was worried he'd gone under again; that he'd wake up and everything would be differently.

"Since last night," Ned responded.

Steve sighed in relief. His whole posture relaxed. "So, I take it this is Peter's house?" he asked looking around the apartment. It was nice not waking up in a jail cell or an alleyway or a desert in the middle of nowhere.

"Yeah," Ned said, nodded. "He rescued you last night. Well, I mean, you kinda rescued him but then you passed out and he brought you here," he explained. Then he cringed and face-palmed. "No, wait, crap! Not Peter. Spider-Man. Spider-Man saved you. Crap! Peter isn't Spider-Man, I swear!"

This time, Steve outright laughed (although he was surprised at the pain the movement caused.) "It's alright, I won't tell," he assured. When he fought with Spider-Man in Germany, he remembered wondering how old the kid was. "So you work with Spider-Man, I take it?" Steve asked.

Ned's whole face lit up. "Oh, yeah. Definitely. I'm his guy-in-the-chair. His number one. Spider-Man would be toast without me,"

"And how old are you?" Steve asked out of curiosity.

"Fifteen!" Ned declared.

Steve's blood ran cold. It really wasn't hard to put two-and-two together. Steve thought Spider-Man was young but fifteen? He tried to beat up a fifteen-year-old. Sure, the kid was ridiculously strong but still, did that make it right? Not only that, but Tony knowingly brought a fifteen-year-old kid to battle? What if he'd been hurt or killed?

"Uh, hey, Mr. Captain America? Are you okay?" Ned asked, taking a step forward.

Steve shook his head. "I'm fine, kid. Listen, why don't you call me Steve?" he asked. He had so many questions. After all, Spider-Man was on Tony's side, right? So why didn't he turn Captain America in? Could he trust Spider-Man? Did Stark know?

Steve was shaken from his thoughts when he realized that Ned hadn't responded. Looking up, he was somewhat startled to find Ned completely frozen, his mouth hanging open. "You okay?" Steve asked.

"Are you serious?" Ned asked and Steve frowned, growing uneasy.

"About what?" Steve asked cautiously.

"You want me to call you Steve?"

Now Steve was just confused. "Why? Is that a problem?" Had he offended the kid?

"No. It's just… We're on a first-name basis now. Does that… does make us friends?" Ned asked.

Steve exhaled, chuckling breathily. Not offended. Totally star-struck. Again, it was cute. Ned and Peter seemed like two inseparable friends. It almost reminded him of his own best friend, back in the 40s. That thought made him sad, so he pushed it away. "Yeah, of course. After all, you're lookin' after me, right?" he asked, smiling again.

Ned looked about ready to pass out. "This is the greatest day of my life. Can I tweet about this?"

"Ah… probably best not to," Steve advised.

Ned nodded. "Okay. Yeah, you're right. What about a selfie?"

Once again, Steve looked a little uneasy. "Uh, how about a little later? I don't exactly look my best..." he trailed off awkwardly, not sure how else to get out of it.

"I think you look great," Ned affirmed. "But yeah, don't worry, I gotcha. Hey, do you wanna build the TARDIS with me?"

* * *

In my head I see Peter's spirit animal as being a Mountain Blue-Jay. Just in case you were wondering.


	5. Chapter 5

Okay, here it is! It's shorter than I anticipated, so my apologies, but I'm happy with it. No Cap and Ned today, but there will be loads in the next chapter. No, shout-outs today (my brain is absolutely fried and I need to take a writing break) but next chapter I swear I'll shout out everybody I missed.

Thank you for your patience!

Also, just a side note, I almost deleted the entire story instead of just chapter 5. Can you imagine? xD

* * *

The hospital wing of the new Avengers building felt somehow both warm and inviting and dungeon-esque at the same time. The walls were thick and heavy, a crisp white color that refracted the light way too much and made Peter's eyes hurt. The air was nice and warm but felt too dry. It smelled far too clean; lemon, bleach, and antiseptic lingered in the air, with an underlying hint of iron that made Peter's stomach roll.

The cots were nice, though. Instead of sterilized white, each was a different color; all pastel but not washed-out. Warm yellows, grassy greens, baby pinks and blue—the colors were familiar and felt comforting. The sheets were made of cotton instead of that weird papery substance one usually finds on the examination table of a doctor's office. Peter was grateful for that small detail; he hated the papery-stuff. Something about the texture of it made him feel dirty and unwelcomed. The soft cotton sheets were both comfortable and comforting. Peter found himself gripping the fabric tightly, bunching it up and balling his fists around it, in an effort to quell the hammering of his heart.

The room the would've-been Avenger was sitting in was (luckily) not any kind of examination room. After a quick examination and an x-ray, Dr. Banner had given the boy some anti-inflammatories to stem the swelling and ease some of the pain, and sent him off to wait. It was a big, open room filled with dozens of cots and curtains drawn between them. Luckily, Peter was the only one in the big empty room. No wounded men and women, no fleeting souls, no blood, no bandages, nothing to remind him of the bounded length of human life.

Peter had been thinking about death a lot in the past twenty minutes since he'd been left on his own. He really couldn't help himself; the thoughts were intrusive. The painkillers, although mild, worked wonders. For the first time since last night, Peter could think clearly. Unfortunately, that meant a bombardment of unwanted thoughts as his tired mind tried to process the previous night's events.

Almost dying can be a surprisingly traumatic event.

Peter wrapped his arms tight around his bare chest (Banner had removed his shirt to get a better look at the wound) and shivered, not so much from the cold, but from the insecure feeling of being out in the open. He felt small and helpless. He felt vulnerable.

He leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes, ignoring the way his aching body shuddered weakly, and trying to push away those prying existential thoughts. He didn't want to think, thinking was painful. Thinking brought back memories and emotions and made his stomach turn and his heart pound and his vision tunnel and his chest tighten.

Peter grit his teeth in exasperation. The thoughts were relentless. They churned and poured over life and death, over family, over helplessness, over fear, over anger, over the meaning of joy, the meaning of sorrow, over the meaning of life itself.

 _What if I had died? Where would I go? Would May be okay? Would I see mom and dad? God? Would I just stop existing? What would happen to my family? Would we get to be a family again? Is it painful to die? Would I remember being alive? Would I still feel things or get apathetic? Would May be okay?_

He thought of all of the things he'd leave behind if he died. All of the things that happen everyday that would suddenly be gone.

 _What would it be like to not be here tomorrow?_

He thought about what it would be like to never wake up again, to never fall asleep again. He thought about what it would be like to never feel hot or cold, never feel the sting of snow, or the warmth of the sun. He thought about never speaking again, never singing, never feeling the way the air rushed past his vocal cords and tugged on them when sound came out. Never again crying over the death of a T.V. show character. Never laughing so hard his stomach hurt. Never feeling afraid again. Never hanging out with Ned. Never hugging May again. Never getting to tell her how much he loved her.

 _I don't want to die!_

Peter whimpered. It was a tiny, quiet sound, almost inaudible, yet the distress was practically tangible. He wasn't even aware he'd made the sound, it just sort of… happened. He wasn't aware of the way his young frame quivered, the way his face fell and his lips pulled down towards his chin. He wasn't aware of the feeling of tears pricking the backs of his eyes, or the way a lump caught in his throat as his chest and jaw tightened.

But he was very much aware of the sudden panic that flashed through his entire being. He felt how he suddenly couldn't breath. He noticed the way reality suddenly seemed to detach itself, and nothing felt real. (There was a word for that, he remembered. Derealization.)

He was just a kid, after all. He hadn't yet lived long enough to understand the meaning of all these things. Sure, he knew about heaven and hell, and all that stuff. He knew about God. His parents used to read the Bible to him before they passed, and Aunt May kept up the tradition until he grew out of bedtime stories.

But something about staring Death in the face, made him question what he really believed.

This wasn't the first time this had happened, but it made him feel small and afraid. He wanted the feeling to go away. He wanted the feeling to stop.

"Peter, what's wrong? Are you in pain?"

The voice, deep and gentle, cut through Peter's thoughts like a warm knife through butter. His eyes snapped open and found himself face to face with none other than Dr. Jekyll himself—Bruce Banner.

"Doctor Banner!" Peter exclaimed, lurching backwards. "What? No, sorry. I didn't hear you come in!" His heart was hammering again, but in a different way. Banner was his friend. He could trust Banner.

A smile crept onto Peter's face as he reminded himself, for the umpteenth time, _Holy crap! I'm friends with Dr. Banner!_

"Um… how are the x-ray's looking?" he asked, his eyes glistening like stars. Just like that, all of his fears were gone. After all, somebody else was there with him, to protect him (not that he needed protecting, mind you.)

Peter just didn't like being alone.

"Come with me, and I'll show you," Dr. Banner said.

Peter followed behind like an excited puppy and the doctor lead him into a small, dark room.

"So, we're going to prep you for surgery. Nothing major. Nothing to worry about," Dr. Banner said as he set the x-rays up on the light stand to display them to the young boy.

"Surgery?" Peter echoed. That hadn't been part of the plan.

Banner nodded. "Again, it's nothing major. As you can see here," he gestured to the x-rays. "There was quite a bit of damage done to the bone and surrounding ligaments. It looks like part of your clavicle has a nasty crack in it, so we're going to put a screw in to secure it in place while it heals," he explained. "Now that the swelling's down, we're going to pop the arm back into its socket and get you off to surgery. We should have you home by tonight,"

At the mention of the actual relocation of his shoulder, Peter shuddered. Dislocating the shoulder had been painful enough. He couldn't imagine how agonizing it would be to pop it back into place. "Can't you… y'know… just drug me up for that, too?" he asked with a nervous smile.

Bruce turned away and flipped off the x-ray screen. "Well, that's the plan. We'll get you all hooked up to some painkillers, but I'm afraid it won't be enough to completely knock you out,"

Peter cursed.

Bruce snorted. "I hope you don't talk like that at the dinner table,"

Peter smirked. "Aunt May starts it," he responded cheekily.

Banner shook his head and lead the kid back into the big room with the beds and had him sit down.

Peter gulped. He shuddered again and stared at the ground. He was afraid. Oddly enough, it wasn't Ned or Mr. Stark or even Aunt May that he wanted. He just wanted his mask so he could hide his face. It wasn't the same sort of panic he'd felt in the car, but he was most definitely frightened. He didn't like feeling afraid. It made him feel weak. He felt like he was supposed to be better than that.

After a moment of silence, Bruce asked, very softly, "So… Happy mentioned a panic attack?"

Peter's eyes went wide. "Whaaat? No. C'mon, Banner. Look at me. I'm Spider-Man. I'm practically invincible," he responded coolly, but his heart was racing. All Peter wanted was for his heroes to respect him. He wanted to make them proud. Being weak would only drive them away. He didn't want them to think he was a screw up. Because, honestly, a lot of the time, Peter really, really felt like a screw up. Tony had told him once, after the accident with the Ferry, about the consequences of losing a life. But Tony didn't seem to understand that Peter already had lost a life. Nobody understood. Everybody else, all the other heroes, had successfully been able to protect their families. Everybody else's families were safe. But Peter? Peter was a screw up. Unlike everybody else, Peter had a point to prove. He had a debt to make up for.

Bruce grabbed a needle and a sterilizing agent and, after finding a good vein and cleaning the area, pushed the needle beneath the skin. He inserted a tube into the blood stream, connected to a bag filled with some pretty heavy duty painkillers.

"Can I tell you a secret?" Bruce asked, turning around.

Peter squinted suspiciously, surprised by the sudden change of topics.

"Y'know that egotistical mechanic you idolize?" he asked.

"C'mon, I don't idolize Mr. Stark—er, Tony. He's just… super cool," Peter defended, his face turning redder than a boiled lobster.

"He gets 'em too," Banner said simply, ignoring the floundering, defensive teen.

Peter froze. "Wait… what?"

Bruce shrugged. "Panic attacks. I get them too sometimes, when it gets too loud or there are too many people… but Stark's are definitely worse,"

Peter's eyes were wide as saucers. "But… you guys are Avengers…!"

"Yeah, but we're still human. You'd be surprised about the kind of baggage some of us carry. Nat, Thor, Clint, Wanda, Steve," Peter stiffened at the name. "We've all got our demons," There was a pause for a moment and Banner's lips quirked upwards in a smile. "We're all broken. I think that's the one thing that all of humanity has in common. Everybody's broken,"

Peter rolled this over in his mind for a long time. He curled in on himself, wrapping an arm around his bare torso. He honestly didn't know what to make of this new information. He was really ready to talk about his trauma yet. Besides, what if Banner was lying to him just to weasel information out of him? Peter shifted uncomfortably. Dr. Banner, noticing the boy's discomfort, sighed and spoke up.

"Speaking of broken things, let's get that shoulder back in place, okay? I've put a bucket on your left if you feel like you're going to throw up," he said.

Peter's eyes went wide and he gulped. No, no, no, no, no. Do not want. He tensed. How could he get out of this? He could run. How fast was the Hulk? Would Banner even bother hulking out to chase a kid, or would he just call security? "O-okay," he whispered, his mouth suddenly scratchy like sandpaper, all the while his mind was turning, desperate to come up with an escape plan.

Bruce took ahold of Peter's arm and Peter had to turn his head away. It was the anticipation that was going to kill him, really.

"On three," Bruce said. "One—" POP! With a forceful yank and a hard shove, the arm clicked back into place.

Peter threw his head back violently as a raw scream tore from his throat. He knew it was going to be painful, but he had no idea just how painful. It felt as if molten iron had been poured into his veins. He could feel the white-hot agony spread like lightning all over his body. He couldn't seem to breath. His vision turned blue and the whole world tilted to one side. Distantly, a very odd part flashed to his biology class and he wondered if this is how childbirth felt.

The pain sent him pitching forward and he promptly vomited into the provided bucket before collapsing backwards onto the cot. Dr. Banner caught him and helped him down (not wanting the impact of the fall to injure him further.) The poor boy was panting and trembling, and his already pale skin had lost so much color, it almost looked translucent.

"You did really good, Pete," Dr. Banner said encouragingly. He was grateful Tony hadn't been here to witness the ordeal. He doubted the mechanic could stand to see the kid in such pain.

"What the hell happened to two and three?" Peter demanded in response.

Banner laughed and shrugged. "I decided they were boring,"

"Yeah, well, I think you're boring," Peter grumbled. It was a lousy excuse for a comeback, but it was the best he could manage. His head was swimming from exhaustion, a drugs, and a dull ache that not even narcotics could seem to erase.

Bruce eased him down so he was laying flat on his back. "How do you feel?" he asked.

"Floaty," Peter responded. "And you're sure we have to do it?" he asked, too exhausted to keep throwing up his walls. It was getting harder to think. Banner must've increased the dosage.

" 'fraid so, kid," Banner said sympathetically.

Peter closed his eyes and mumbled, "Scared. Never liked the idea of being cut open," He was slurring now.

Banner nodded patiently. "It's okay to be scared, you know. You're not alone,"

Peter snorted. " 's not okay when you're a superhero," he responded softly.

That response made Bruce tilt his head. "What do you mean?"

Peter sighed. "I mean… we gotta be fearless, amiright? Fear 's a… a weakness. 'f our enemies were to see us 'fraid, that'd be real baaaaaaaad,"

Banner couldn't help but to chuckle. This kid still had so much to learn. Not to meantion he was _super_ out of it. "Fear," he said gently, perching next to Peter on the cot. "is more of a superpower than a weakness," Peter snorted in disbelief, so he continued: "No, I mean it. Think about it. The whole purpose of fear is to prepare your body to either fight back or run away. Fear makes you faster, stronger, more clever. It's nothing to be ashamed of. Everybody gets scared. And that's a good thing. It just means that you're alive,"

Peter's eyes flickered open and he watched the doctor for a minute, letting the words sink in. There was a lot to process. But everything felt soft and tingly and floaty and Peter couldn't really think. "Thanks," was all he could manage, but it was all he needed to say.

"No problem," Banner responded.

Peter held his hands up in the air and examined them closely. "Look… fuuuuuzzy…" he whispered and giggled to himself. "Wheeeee….!" he said as he slowly moved his hands though the air.

Bruce shook his head. The kid was gone. He called a nurse to watch him, and left the room to prep the O.R.


	6. Chapter 6

Okay, I know I have some explaining to do. The last chapter really, really kicked my butt. I must've rewritten it like eight different times and I published two different versions of it, and I was still unhappy with it. (I'm still unhappy with it, so expect it to get rewritten at some point.) I think the problem was this: When I started writing this story, I knew exactly where it was going and exactly how it was going to end. I had an end goal in mind. The first version of the chapter wasn't well received and I realized that the direction that I had been planning to take the story in didn't work with the way it was being written. So I rewrote the chapter in the effort of pressing forward.

I hit a bad case of writer's block (I'm still struggling with it to some degree) because I suddenly had no idea where this story was headed, and I suddenly had no reason to keep writing it because I had no set destination.

I admittedly, kinda gave up on this story for a couple of months.

However, I watched Infinity Wars the other day and it re-inspired me to keep going. (Warning: Spoilers without context, "I don't feel so good." Am I right guys? I, personally, was emotionally unprepared for the full-on David Tennant.) Strangely enough, I walked out of that movie with the inexplicable desire to write a sickfic.

Anyways, I don't plan on giving up the story anymore. I'm still a little shaky on where it's going, but it's starting to come together. A very wise writer once said, "You can't keep waiting for the lightning to strike." No more waiting for random bursts of inspiration. There are like two or three hundred of you guys who've followed this story and I have NO intention of disappointing all y'all by abandoning the story.

With that being said, I'd like to thank padfootl0ve, 10sBlueRose, silverwolvesarecool, monkeybaby, Jre' East (auto correct had a heart attack while I trying typing your username, FYI), Clieo Of The South (whose avatar gave me really unnecessary Lilo and Stitch feels so thanks for that), mormonwolf, Yabas, Nayrsamoht12, Booksnake3, cnocys, Freedom to Rarity, beloved of naruto (I WISH I'D THOUGHT OF THAT, THAT'D BE GENIUS), Unajet, Steefwaterbutter, MugetsuPipefox, Tori of Lorien, Guesty, Guest (you know who you are, you mythic beat, you), Torten300, I Am A Difference Maker, Cloudoffeathers, QuestRunner, WinterSunshine, SPNWizard, Qwertyweirdo, Guild of Scribes, sleepy247, Anon, Bucketoflove, empathy, TeamCaptain2016, mysterious-dragonfly-girl, EmilyF.6, totallynotachicken, Sarcastic Radiation, and Hithere (again, all you anons know who you are) for all of your wonderful reviews. You guys are honestly the real reason why I kept writing so, congratulations, you all successfully guilted me into writing more.

For any of you who actually read this obnoxious block of text, you all should get gold medals.

* * *

As Captain Steve Rogers stared up at ceiling and his mind reeling and picked over the events of the last twenty four hours, the one thing that kept dragging him out of his thoughts was the silence. The tiny little apartment was dark and quiet. The lull of traffic outside was so distant that it failed to register. The kid, Spider-Man (Peter was his name?) lay on his bed in the other room, in an almost death-like slumber—perfectly still and peaceful. The reticence of the place was crushing, restraining, suffocating. It was unnerving.

When Steve had first awoken that afternoon, the first thing he'd noticed was that he had no idea where he was. That had sent a wave of panic washing over him, and he had sat up so fast that he nearly punctured a lung on one of his fractured ribs. The terror he'd felt in that moment had been almost indescribable because how long had he been sleeping for?

Obvious indicators—a calendar on the wall, the date and time on the TV, the clocks on both the oven and the microwave—had let him know that he'd only been asleep for a few hours. However, those bastards at S.H.I.E.L.D. had tried to pull that trick on him once before—carefully decorating a room in 40's décor to trick him into believing that everything was still okay, that no time had passed at all. It was a trick that hadn't worked the first time and most certainly wouldn't work a second. However, after a very thorough scan of the room and, unable to find any evidence that he was being lied to, Steve Rogers had finally allowed himself to relax back into the sofa with a relieved grunt.

That was when the pain had set in.

Steve Rogers was no stranger to pain. He'd grown up weak and sickly, and had spent most of his childhood either in bed or in the doctor's office. He'd also been cursed with an acute sense of justice and an intolerance for unfairness and, as a result, he'd spent a good portion of his teenage years covered in cuts and bruises after constantly picking fights he had no hope of winning. (Seriously, Bucky Barnes had been, like, 95% of Steve 'On Va Voir' Roger's impulse control.)

That being said, the pain Steve had experienced that afternoon, mere moments after waking, was exquisite. Cuts, bruises, broken arms, and fractured ribs were all things that Steve could deal with. (Again, like, 85% of his teenage years could be defined by "cuts, and bruises, and broken arms, and fractured ribs".) But it was the wound on his chest that had caused him the most pain.

Running a (non-injured) hand down his wound, Steve had been able to diagnose it almost immediately, simply based on the cold, hard, waxy texture: freezer burn. The skin around the area was bumpy and swollen and covered in blisters, indicating varying degrees of frostbite. Even through the fabric of the thin gauze that was wrapped the wound, he had been able to feel it. He pulled his hand away almost immediately.

Steve had groaned, softly, shuddering, and had brought his head back to rest on the arm of the sofa. He had no intention of looking down at that wound, regardless of whether or not it was bandaged. The mere knowledge of its existence made Steve's stomach roll like waves in an ocean storm.

Steve Rogers was very well acquainted with freezer burn. After waking up from the ice, Steve had spend a good amount of time in physical therapy to recover from his wounds. Luckily, the Super Soldier Serum had prevented his muscles from atrophying, stopped the cold from doing major damage to his vital organs, and had healed a good portion of the frostbite and freezer burn long before he woke, but it left some rather hideous scars in some rather unfortunate places.

The steps to Steve's recovery had been the same as if he had been caught in a terrible house fire; scars pulled his skin tights and restricted his movement. The goal of therapy had been to get them to loosen up. Technology, skin grafts, and the serum had greatly shortened his recovery time, but it had been a painful, arduous process. It was not a process Steve was keen on either repeating or remembering.

After noting the time and the extend of his injuries, the third thing Steve had noticed upon waking, was a voice coming from somewhere in the empty void behind the couch. Grunting as he propped himself up, Steve had been more than a little surprised to see some overweight kid talking to himself in the mirror whilst wearing a Spider-Man mask (it had to be a costume, right? He'd met Spider-Man before and this kid simply didn't fit the description.)

Regardless of whether it was real or just a costume, seeing that mask had brought the disjointed memories flooding back. He remembered the bunker, the doctor, the vials of antigen, getting stabbed in the neck with that neurotoxin—which his body must've still been fighting with, as his advanced healing was taking much longer to kick in than it normally did—he remembered being attacked by three masked crooks, blacking out, and being rescued by Spider-Man, of all people.

That had left Steve with a lot of questions. From context clues he had been able to gather that Spider-Man, after saving his life, brought him home and patched him up. Why? After all, Spider-Man and Iron Man were on the same team, right? So why not turn him in? Why bring him here? Where was the Spider-Kid now? Who was that other kid?

The aforementioned kid hadn't seemed to have any intention of turning around, so Steve cleared his throat and asked, "Hello. Who are you?"

He had learned from the kid, Ned, that he was, in fact, in Spider-Man's home. Spider-Man (Peter Parker was his real name, Steve learned) was back at the Avengers' HQ having his shoulder relocated.

But that had only been the beginning.

After he and Ned had completed the LEGO T.A.R.D.I.S., Tony's assistant, Happy, had arrived, dragging a heavily medicated Peter Parker in tow. Steve had been yanked to his feet (a move which Steve's aching body deeply regretted) and was stuffed into the bathroom to hide. After getting Peter situated into bed, Happy left and Steve was released from the porcelain prison.

Steve, exhausted and in a horrendous amount of pain, took a nap on the couch while Ned had dorked around the house doing whatever he pleased.

He'd woken from his nap to find a thoughtfully prepared bowl of ramen noodles on the couch and a note from Ned explaining that his mother had summoned him home, but that he'd be back in the morning (oh joy.) Ned had also left a series of detailed instructions on how to operate a microwave (modern technology is difficult, after all) in the event that the soup should get cold. It was a kind gesture, and Steve couldn't help but chuckle as he ate his cold, salty, soggy noodles.

Initially, Steve had been relieved that Ned was gone. Despite being on the tail end of an illness, Ned had been full of energy and hadn't hesitated to bombard the poor, ailing captain with a plethora of (somewhat inappropriate) questions.

However, now that there was no background noise, there was no barrier between Steve and his thoughts. They tossed and turned in his head like a litter of hamsters thrown into a washing machine. When he finally couldn't bare it any longer, he eased his legs over the side of the couch and slowly rose to his feet.

"Damn," he muttered softly, bringing a hand to his head in a vain effort to stave off a sudden spike of pain.

Slowly, Steve made his way to the wall, and leaned against it for support as he shuffled towards Spider-Man's room.

He really was just a kid.

Peter looked so… small. He was crumpled up on his bed in a pained heap, his face pale and ashen and his breathing shallow and ragged.

Those goons really roughed him up. Steve thought to himself. I really roughed him up. He added bitterly, memories flooding back from his fight with Stark in Germany. At the time, Steve thought Spider-Man sounded a lot like a kid but seeing him there, curled up in bed, maskless and vulnerable, he couldn't help but feel guilty for trying to rough him up.

With a heavy sigh, Steve returned to the couch and stared up at the ceiling once more.

It was nearly 9 o'clock at night when Peter finally woke. His head was pounding and his shoulder ached, but it was nothing compared to yesterday. Groaning, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and carefully stood up, swaying as the room tried to invert itself. Slowly, slide-dragging his feet across the ground, he made his way into the kitchen. He grabbed him self a glass from the cupboard and turned on the tap, letting the water run for a moment to get cold. He groaned, grasping at the sides of the sink, as a headache suddenly spiked behind his eyes. He felt like his brain was trying to alien his way out of his skull.

"Chocolate will help with the headache," a voice called from the couch.

"Hmn?" Peter asked, lifting his head and squinted to see who spoke.

Captain America. Steve Roger. Crap. Right. He forgot about that. Immediately, Peter straightened. "Captain Rogers!" Peter cried in recollection, then doubled over as another wave of pain washed over him.

"Careful, kid. You're gonna make yourself sick," Steve chided, sitting up a little to get a better look at the kid. The poor thing looked absolutely miserable, which was unsurprising considering the extend of his injuries.

Steve couldn't help but chuckle. He knew exactly what the poor kid was feeling. "Got any chocolate?" Steve asked.

Peter, rising again and shutting off the tap, blinked at the Super Soldier and had to think for a moment. "Yeah," he said with a nod, then retrieved a Hersey's bar from the bottom shelf in the pantry. Slowly and wincing from the pain the movement elicited, he made his way over to the couch and held the candy out for the Avenger to take.

Steve looked a little confused and shook his head. "Not for me. You eat it. It'll help. C'mere and sit down. You look beat," he said, gesturing to one of the chairs around the coffee table.

Obediently, Peter sat down. "I look beat? You should look in the mirror," he said with a tiny, cheeky smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Steve snorted. "Yeah, but I'm used to it, kid. It's kinda my job. You on the other hand—"

Peter raised an eyebrow and Steve closed his mouth. He had a lot of strong feelings about Tony bringing a kid, a fifteen year old kid, out onto the battlefield. But then again, the kid wasn't exactly trying to keep himself out of trouble. Spider-Man was big news in the Queens. It wasn't as if Tony had gone out and plucked any random kid up off the street and demanded he learn how to fight. Peter was Spider-Man before Tony Stark showed up. Spider-Man was Peter's creation, not Tony's.

Besides, Steve was exactly the same way when he was Peter's age; standing up for the little guy, fighting for what was right, and never backing down. The only difference was, Steve never won those fights. Either Bucky would come to the rescue or he'd wake up in some alley with a little less blood than he'd stared out with. Mind you, that didn't stop Steve Rogers from picking fights with every damn mouth-breather on his side of the Brooklyn Bridge.

Besides, Peter saved his life last night. He really had no right to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Steve shook his head, voting to abandon his argument. "So, how does a kid like you end up in this line of work?" he asked.

"I got bit by a fancy spider and the next day I accidentally ripped the door off of its hinges, " Peter said with a sheepish shrug.

That made Steve smile. "Y'know, the funny this is, the same thing happened to me," he said, remembering how he accidentally ripped a cab door off of the frame before throwing it at some petty thief like it was a frisbee.

"That was the hardest part to get used to. It was so weird! For like a week, I kept breaking things because had no idea how to function, any more," Peter explained, brightening at the conversation.

Steve nodded, humming in affirmation. "That's how I felt too. I had to relearn how to do everything,"

Peter nodded vigerously. "Right? Like opening doors and squeezing toothpaste and pulling clothes off of the hanger. Y'know I kept hitting myself in the face with stuff because when I would go to pick it up, it would be way lighter than I was expecting!"

"The same thing happened to me, too," Steve said with a nod.

"Aunt May and Uncle Ben thought I was on drugs or going through some sort of teen angst phase," Peter hummed.

Steve frowned, suddenly, narrowing his eyes in surprise. "You didn't tell them?" he asked.

Peter shook his head frantically. "What? No! No way! They'd take me to the doctor or something and I didn't want to get studied and dissected like a rat. Besides, I didn't want to worry them,"

Steve sat up a little more. "And they still don't know?"

Peter shook his head. "No, Aunt May knows. She found out on accident and kinda flipped out," he said, wincing at the memory. Suddenly, his expression turned sad. "Uncle Ben though… He… ah… He passed away," he said quietly, averting his eyes to the floor.

Steve's gaze softened. "I'm so sorry. What did he die of?" he asked.

Peter was silent for a moment, wrestling with the difficult memory. "He got shot by a robber. That's, uh, that's why I wanna be a super hero so bad. 'Cause I could've save him but I didn't. I've got the powers, I've got the responsibility," Peter sucked in a deep breath and puffed out his chest as though steeling himself to a grim resolve.

"Hey, kid?" Steve began softly. "Er—Peter, right?" he asked. Peter's head snapped up and Steve smiled. "Sorry, your friend kinda outted you," he explained.

"Dammit, Ned!" Peter groaned, tossing his head back. Then, glancing worriedly back at the All American boy scout, Peter corrected himself, "Um, I mean, dang it,"

Steve couldn't help but roll his eyes (back in the army, Steve and Bucky had been quite a pair of gutter-mouths after all) but followed that gesture up with a simply shrug. "Hey, it was bound to happen. What, did you expect to wear that fancy suit around all the time while I was here?" he asked with a smirk and Peter merely grumbled in response. Truth be told, he hadn't exactly thought that part through. Peter was never really big on planning ahead or thinking things through.

Sighing, Steve put a hand on the kid's shoulder. It was a very paternal gesture that made Peter feel a little excited, a lot starstuck, and a little sad. "Listen, Peter, this is very important. You don't have to hold the world up on your shoulders, okay? Sometimes, bad things are gonna happen that you can't stop, no matter how hard you try, and that's okay. It's okay to mess up, to fail. It'll hurt, but… Peter, you can't be God. You can't hold yourself to that level of expectation, it'll kill you. It's way to big of a burden to carry on your shoulders, especially alone,"

Peter sighed, fidgeting with his hands for a moment, unsure of how to respond. Aunt May had told him the exactly same thing on numerous occasions, and Mr. Stark sometimes said stuff that could be vaguely translated into that same message. "I know," he said with a little sigh. "I mean, like, I know all that stuff logically, but it's really hard to actually believe it, you know?"

Steve nodded sympathetically. "Yeah, I definitely know the feeling kid," he said gently.

Peter narrowed his eyes. "So what do I do about it?"

"Well," Steve began thoughtfully. "In my own experience, it's not really something you can convince yourself,"

Peter blinked, confused. "Huh?" he asked. Clearly that was not the answer he was expecting.

"You've gotta talk about it. Talk it through with other people. You need a team, Peter. People who will listen and help shoulder the burden," Steve couldn't help but feel a little sad for a moment. After all, that's why he and the Howling Commandos were so close. …And why the Avengers never achieved that same closeness.

Peter sat up sharply. "Like the Avengers?" he asked. His eyes practically filled with stars. "Are you asking me to join the Avengers?" he asked, nearly shouting in excitement. Then, Peter winced and deflated, remembering that Oh yeah, Captain America isn't part of the Avengers anymore…

Rubbing the back of his neck and trying to bypass the awkwardness, Peter said sheepishly, "Sorry for bringing up all of this stuff, Mr. Captain Rogers,"

"You can just call me Steve, kid," he said. Seriously, what was up with the youth of today? Why were they so weirdly polite?

There were those stars in Peter's eyes again. No wonder he and Ned were friends. They were practically the same person.

Relaxing back into the couch, Steve gestured to the still-uneaten candy bar that was slowly melting in Peter's hand. "Eat your chocolate, kid. It'll help you feel better,"

Peter blinked. "Oh yeah!" he exclaimed and greedily dug into the candy. He paused, only for a moment, to comment on the completed LEGO T.A.R.D.I.S. "Aw, you guys built the whole thing without me?"

* * *

As for the future of this story, I promise it shouldn't be a terribly long time, as I know what's happening next. Let's just say, considering that it's Saturday night and Aunt May's coming home Sunday morning... y'all can expect to see two tiny little teenagers frantically trying to hide a 6'2", 220 lbs super soldier in an itty bitty apartment.

I also feel like we should get Steve some clothes because I'm pretty sure he's still in his boxers.


	7. Chapter 7

So, I've discovered that if I actually just write the darn thing instead of complaining about writing it or making up excuses about why I haven't written it yet, it actually gets written. Go figure.

Many thanks to mpathy, EmilyF.6, BeautifulKnight, Yabas, AwEsOmEiZR123, ScarletMacguyver, monkeybaby, Dolphelcat, MugetsuPipefox, trustpixiedust, Wisdomqueen, padfootl0ve, I Am A Difference Maker, TeamCaptain2016 (same, btw), Fuxxy-Panda, PrimeReader, curry-llama, MobiBlue, .rebirth, 10sBlueRose (YAS DOCTOR WHOOOOOOO 5EVER), cal numbers, little miss BANANNA HEAD, Style1234, JaneGriffin, Darlin, SummerMistedDragon, Sarcastic Radiation, unluckyoen13, SoftballSuperhero, littlemissliketofight, Tabbitoast, Paulina, AkaDeca (x6, wow! Thank you!), sleepy247, Style1234 (again, thank you so much!), tardisgater (YAS GO WHOVIANS GO), The FlashFire, and all you guests for your support! You guys are seriously the best, I can't thank you enough!

* * *

Sunday. Today was the big day. Peter had set his alarm clock to go off extra early that morning so that he could get everything sorted out before his aunt got back home. Of course, considering the fact that it was still the weekend and Peter was a teenager, 'extra early' meant about ten o'clock in the morning.

First things first: Cleaning. The apartment was a mess. Imagine releasing one hundred wild dogs into an 850 square foot apartment. That's about how the apartment looked. Dirty dishes were piled high in the sink and flour covered the counter tops from Peter's "Baking with the Avengers" video that he'd filmed earlier in the week. Dirty clothes were flung all over the place, the bathroom was a mess, and the overflowing trash had a sickly, sweet-and-salty scent, like sesame chicken that had been composting for a month, or the decaying corpse of a snake that had curled up and died in a bowl of day-old popcorn. Also, the couch in the living room was stained with about a fifth a Steve's total blood volume. Oops.

Speaking of Steve, the Super Soldier in question was passed out on the couch, tucked under three different quilts because the poor guy really wasn't fond of being cold while he slept. Go figure.

Peter tiptoes towards Steve and quietly loomed over him, cocking his head and squinting at him to get a better look at his face in the dim light. Luckily, Steve was looking better—meaning that he looked more like a Calvin Klein model who'd picked a fight with a raccoon and lost, rather than a Calvin Klein model who'd picked a fight with a bear and three thousand badgers and lost. His face wasn't as pale, the circles under his eyes weren't as dark. He looked peaceful. Still exhausted, yes, but peaceful. For a moment, Peter debated waking him and requesting his help in cleaning up the apartment. However, the idea was quickly discarded because A.) the poor guy still looked pretty worse-for-wear and, seeing as he was still healing, he could use all the sleep he could get. And B.) somehow, it felt wrong to wake up Steve Rogers, an Avenger and literally one of the coolest people ever, and request his help with something as menial as cleaning. He felt that, somehow, cleaning was beneath the Avenger.

So, Peter set to work by himself. After making himself a cup of coffee for breakfast, he started in the kitchen. First, he loaded everything that would fit into the dishwasher, like a masterfully played game of 'Tetris for functioning adults'. Then, he wiped off the counter and mopped up the floor (without first sweeping it) before hand-washing the stray dishes that hadn't fit into the dishwasher. Afterwards, he set to work picking up all of his dirty clothes and dumping them (well, more like cramming them) into the washing machine. He wanted to get them all done quickly, so he didn't bother separating them out into lights and darks, as his aunt had cautioned him to do so, so many times. The bathroom was the easiest to clean; with just a little bit of Windex and some All Purpose cleaner, he was done in a flash.

With the task finished in record time, Peter stood in the middle of the living room and admired his work. Imagine releasing one hundred wild dogs into an 850 square foot apartment, except the dogs were all part of a Disney film and knew how to clean. Not an animated Disney film, mind you, but a live action Disney film, like Enchanted. That's how the apartment looked when Peter had finished.

The most frustrating part about the whole ordeal, was the fact that he couldn't use his injured arm, which was still propped up in a sling, and made everything much more difficult. Washing dishes with one arm, Peter had discovered, was a lot like trying to herd cats whilst riding a unicycle: it was completely ineffective and mostly he just looked like an idiot. Speaking of his injured arm, he still had no idea how he was going to explain it to May, because no matter what he told her, she was definitely going to freak out.

And speaking of freaking out, Captain America suddenly bolted upright with a loud gasp, startling poor Peter so much that he jumped in the air a good three feet and stuck onto the wall.

Steve's chest was heaving, and for a moment, all he could do was stare down at his lap, his fists balled tightly in the fabric of the quilts, as he tried to get a better grasp on reality.

Peter was somewhat surprised. A nightmare? Bruce had mentioned that Steve had a tendency to get them, but Peter hadn't really believed him. Much like cleaning, nightmares were also the sort of thing that Peter assumed was beneath the Avenger. After all, Steve Rogers was a hero and heroes don't get scared, right? Right?

"Hey, uh, Mister Captain America, sir?" Peter asked cautiously as he climbed off of the wall. "Are you okay? I didn't wake you, did I?" Seeing the Super Soldier so disheveled was somehow both comforting and unnerving. Peter was glad that he wasn't the only one who was effected by trauma, but it didn't feel right seeing the good captain in such a vulnerable state.

Somewhat startled, Steve whipped around, an action which he deeply regretted, as the movement caused him to jostle the many injures that marred his Greek-god-like torso. He was momentarily surprised to see the teen before his memories came flooding back and he relaxed. "Yeah… Yeah, I'm okay. It was just a dream," he waved the teen off dismissively before adding, with a tiny smile, "And you can call me Steve, remember?"

Peter's eyes widened slightly. "Uh, oh yeah! Of course. Sorry about that, Mister Steve. I mean... Steve. Sorry,"

Steve couldn't help but snort. This poor kid was too polite for his own good. Carefully, he threw the blankets aside and slowly rose to his feet, a hand flying to his abdomen from the pain of standing. He was upright for about a minute before his legs gave out and he collapsed backwards onto the couch with a cry of pain.

Luckily, Peter's spidey senses had alerted him to the impending collapse and he rushed forward, managing to catch the soldier and help him back down onto the couch.

"What happened? Are you okay?" Peter cried, immediately stepping back to give Steve some space. His mind was firing off at a thousand miles an hour, which meant that his mouth was, too. "Did you lose to much blood? Are you dying? Your ribs are broken. Do you think one of them just puncture a lung? Should we go to a hospital?"

Feeling somewhat overwhelmed by the bombardment, Steve waved his non-broken hand dismissively. "I'm fine, Peter. It's alright. It's just my leg," he said, gesturing to the wrapped wound on his thigh.

"Oh," Peter said, visibly relaxing. "Yeah, that makes a lot of sense,"

Steve looked rather uncomfortable, Peter noted, sitting on the couch with nothing on but his underwear. Luckily, Peter seemed to cue in on the soldier's discomfort because he snapped his fingers and said, "Oh yeah! I almost forgot!" and dashed off into May's room.

He returned moments later carrying some neatly folded fabric. "Here, you can wear these," he said, and placed his cargo into the super soldier's arms. "I… I, uh… I h-had to cut you out of your other clothes, so… they're kinda…. destroyed," Peter squeaked. His whole face burned read and he was doing his very best to avoid eye contact because how embarrassing! "But I only did it because Karen told me to! You were really hurt and she said that I had to, so it wasn't my fault, it was hers!" he explained, tripping over his own words.

"Karen?" Steve asked, trying not to laugh at the poor kid's embarrassment.

"Huh?" Peter asked, finally lifting his head to look at the Super Soldier. All embarrassment was forgotten in an instant. His eyes lit up and he said, "Oh yeah! Karen is my suit lady! She talks to me and helps me out with stuff," he explained.

"An AI?" Steve asked, clarifying.

Peter nodded. "Yeah, Stark put her in my suit for me. She's really cool!"

Steve's smile seemed to falter for a moment at the mention of Tony's name. His grip on the clothing tightened ever so slightly, but he said nothing.

Peter, sensing the change in the atmosphere, said, "Uh, yeah. So, uh, you can wear those. Those were my Uncle Ben's and he was a little smaller than you, so they might be a little bit tight. If they don't work I can go down to Goodwill if you want, and find something that's your size, or I dunno if you have an apartment around here—well, I suppose Brooklyn is kinda far from here. Well, actually, it's only like, ten miles and I'm sure I could probably make it over there pretty quick, I've gone farther before—but, yeah. Anyways, I dunno if you have an apartment I could go to and pick up clothes or something…?" Peter trailed off, twiddling his thumbs as a way to deal with the nervous energy.

Steve was, once again, a little overwhelmed with Peter's rapid-fire rambling, but at the end of it, he just smiled and said, "Don't worry about it. I'm sure these will be just fine,"

Steve rose to his feet, groaning as he did so. He was very careful not to put any weight on his damaged leg, lest he collapse again. He was about to head off to the bathroom to change, but Peter quickly interject, "Hey wait! Actually, before you go, we should probably change your bandages!"

Steve blinked in surprise and nodded. He sat back down on the couch and Peter sidled right up next to him, just in case he needed help with the bandages. Steve seemed somewhat tentative, but realized that with his broken arm and Peter's dislocated shoulder, they only had two good hands between them. Teamwork was probably the best option.

Peter was buzzing with excitement (and caffeine) and doing his very best not to be totally star struck but this was just so cool! Captain flipping America! In his home! Man, he had so many questions he wanted to ask!

"Questions?" Steve asked and Peter blushed fiercely, realizing that he might've accidentally said that last bit out loud.

"Yeah, but not super important questions. Just some stuff about the forties," Peter explained and Steve nodded in understanding. "Like, what was it like when you first heard about the moon landing? Did it totally blow your mind? Also, what about when they told you that smoking was actually _bad_ for your health? What did you think when you watched the original Star Wars trilogy? We're you totally shocked about the whole Vader thing? Do you ever miss eating candy that got discontinued years ago? Did they have sliced bread in the thirties and forties? What about—"

"Okay, let's focus on the task at hand first," Steve said, already beginning to undo some of his bandages. His bright blue eyes were lit up with a mixture of irritation and amusement.

Peter's face turned beet red (again) and he nodded. "Uh… yeah. Yeah, oh yeah. Okay," His one good hand hovered over Steve's torso and he suddenly felt very uncomfortable again, worrying about boundaries and such.

This was super awkward.

"Are you alright?" Steve asked, concern lacing his voice. "You're shaking," he noted, gesturing to Peter's trembling hands.

"Huh? Oh yeah! I'm totally fine. I, uh, made some coffee for breakfast, sometimes it makes me kinda jittery," he explained with a sheepish grin.

Peter Parker and caffeine weren't the best of combinations. Caffeine _always_ made Peter jittery and a little bit hyperactive, and sometimes it made his sensory overload problems worse, but that didn't ever seem to stop Peter from binge drinking every caffeinated drink he could get his hands on. He kinda liked the way it made him feel; he always felt super productive, like he could accomplish a billion things!

"I see…" Steve trailed off, as if he were completely unsure as to how to respond.

Peter looked mortified. "Did I say that whole coffee thing out loud?" he asked and Steve nodded.

"A little bit, yeah," Steve said and Peter groaned mournfully.

Not wanting to make himself a bigger fool than he was, Peter set to work unwrapping the bandages. Steve helped where he could, but his movement was limited by pain. Peter didn't bother unwrapping the splint around Steve's arm, as there really wasn't much he could do while the bone healed. Luckily, his arm looked less purple and swollen, so, hopefully, the bone was healing.

However, Peter couldn't help but gasp when he saw the sight of Steve's other wounds. They were exactly the same as they were when he'd wrapped them, two days before. They hadn't even scabbed over! In fact, as soon as the tight bandages were removed, blood began to flow freely.

Steve looked just as concerned. This had never happened before!

"I thought you had super quick healing?" Peter asked.

"I do," Steve said, knitting his brows together in concern.

By far, the worst of them all, was the deep puncture wound on his thigh. Where as the other wounds looked fresh, just as they had been when they were inflicted, the stab wound on his thigh was far worse than it had been. The flesh of the area was turning gray, dark, black veins spiderwebbing away from the wound. It looked almost necrotic.

Peter gagged and had to look away. "What did you get hit with?" Peter asked, eyes wandering anywhere but the good Captain's thigh. "It looks almost poisoned. Do you think it could be poison?"

"Might be. I don't know, I didn't see it properly, I was focused on the one with the ice gauntlet. Some sort of blade, I think. A knife, or a spear? I don't really remember much about the fight," he admitted. He winced again and brought a hand up to his head. A headache split through his skull when he tried to remember.

"You've probably got a concussion," Peter said. "Well, that's what Karen said when I brought you in. Wait, am I not supposed to let you sleep with those? Why is that? Crap, did I make it worse?"

"No, no, you've done just fine, Spider-Man. I'm fine, don't worry about it too much, okay?" he suggested.

Peter looked pretty unsure, but nodded nonetheless. He finished bandaging the wounds in silence (a task which was, again, infinitely harder with only one arm.)

With everything patched up, Steve left to change. He returned not long afterwards, looking even more exhausted than he had been, as if the action of simply chancing his clothes had been a great and painful ordeal. The clothes—grey sweatpants and a loose fitting Hawaiian shirt—were, luckily, not as tight as he thought they were going to be. Peter had to pause for a moment, just to stare. The shirt was absolutely hideous. Imagine releasing one hundred wild dogs into an 850 square foot apartment, and asking them to design the ugliest Hawaiian shirt they can possibly dream up. That's what it looked like.

Peter cringed. In his haste, he'd grabbed the first shirt he found, and, unfortunately, he'd picked the worst one. It had been Uncle Ben's lucky Hawaiian shirt, one he'd only worn on special occasions.

"Your uncle certainly had an interesting taste in clothes," Steve commented.

Peter nodded, and couldn't help but feel somewhat sad. "Yeah… yeah, he did,"

Steve 'Mom-at-the-Ready' Rogers smiled sympathetically and put a hand on Peter's shoulder and said, "Hey," in a gentle, compassionate voice. "It gets better,"

Peter couldn't help but slump a little. "I know it does. And it has been! Just sometimes… I dunno. I feel guilty,"

"It wasn't your fault, you know. From what you told me, it sounds like there was really nothing you could do. Peter, it wasn't your fault," Steve said. "I understand the feeling. Really, I do,"

"Thanks," Peter said, somewhat listlessly. He didn't quite believe Steve, but he was grateful, nonetheless, for the support.

Steve nodded in understanding before casting his eyes around the tiny apartment. "You cleaned," he commented. Not very well, Steve noted, but then again, Steve had been no better when he was fifteen.

"Yeah! I did," Peter said. There was more than a hint of pride in his voice, as if cleaning up were some sort of Herculean task. "My aunt's coming home in a little while and I didn't want her to freak out," he explained.

Steve clicked his tongue. "You should've woken me up, I could've helped," he offered.

Peter felt his face flush at the offer and shook his head quickly. "What? No! I'd never ask you do to something like that. You're an Avenger! Besides, you're hurt,"

"So what?" Steve countered, looking amused. "Avenger or no, I'd be more than happy to help clean up. Back when we all lived at the tower together, we used to have a chore chart,"

Peter's jaw practically hit the floor. "A chore chart? What? No way! That's so… so…"

"Domestic?" Steve asked with a smirk.

"Yeah!" Peter exclaimed.

"Kid, you don't know the half of it," Steve said with a snort. "We had to start using stickers to get people motivated to actually stick to the chore chart,"

Peter's mouth twisted into a wry smile. "Stickers?" he echoed in disbelief. "Wait, what kind of stickers? Like the lame stickers with smiley faces? Or the ones with the bad space puns?"

"Animals, usually. Nat once found some dinosaur stickers at Krogers, and those were the most popular for a while," Steve explained. There was something distant about the look on Steve's face, something sad.

Peter opened his mouth to add something else when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw an all too familiar car pull up into the parking lot. Peter cursed loudly. "We gotta go!" he shouted.

Steve's eyes grew wide and his body went rigid as he prepared for a fight. "Why? What's going on?" he demanded.

"May just parked, she'll be up here any second! You gotta hide!" Spider-Man exclaimed, pushing Captain America in the direction of his bedroom, which was somewhat difficult, considering Steve's awkward gait, thanks to the necrotic stab wound in his leg.

Steve all but collapsed onto the lower bunk of Peter's bed after accidentally hitting his head on the base of the upper bunk. The bed, clearly built for teenagers and not super soldiers, creaked under Steve's weight. Peter rushed back out of the room and slammed the door closed just in time to watch May come through the front door, carefully inspecting the broken handle as she did so.

"Peter? What happened to the—Peter!" May cried, spotting her nephew standing sheepishly in front of his bedroom door. The first thing she noticed was the sling, followed by the scrapes and bruises that littered his face. She immediately went into panic mode. Her purse and suitcase were immediately abandoned and she rushed towards him, taking his face in her hands and inspecting him thoroughly.

"What the hell happened, Peter? Who did this to you?" she demanded as he struggled to free himself from her grasp.

"I'm fine, May, I promise. I'm okay!" he countered.

"Clearly you're not! What happened?" she asked again, giving him a look that would send any baddie running for their lives.

After squirming out of her grasp, Peter sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck with his good hand. "So I was at this Decathlon practice, right?" he began, trying to come up with a clever fib.

"Peter Benjamin Parker—" May warned, clearly not buying the obvious lie.

"Okay, okay," he relented, holding his hand in the air in defeat. "It was while I was out on patrol. Some guys were using those alien-hybrid weapons that I was telling you about, and they were beating up… this one civilian… and I had to rescue the guy, so I fought them, and I wasn't really paying attention, and one of them got me and dislocated my shoulder," he said, speaking as fast as he possibly could hoping that, maybe, May wouldn't hear him properly and he wouldn't be in so much trouble.

"They dislocated your shoulder?!" she cried. Peter could've sworn that there was bloodlust in her eyes. She looked absolutely ready to go hunt those men down and beat them up with her bare hands.

"Just a little… I mean, yeah! But it's okay, 'cause I still got 'em," he said, his voice full of pride. He really couldn't help it. He did a great job taking them down! "And I went straight to the hospital afterwards," he said. "Well… the Avengers Compound. And Bruce Banner was my doctor! The Hulk! Can you believe it? May, it was the coolest thing ever!"

"Why didn't you call me, Peter?" she asked. She was proud of him, of course, but her eyes were filled with hurt and deep concern. Peter was the only family she had left. If she ever lost him…

Peter curled in on himself, ashamed. "I'm really sorry, May," he said. "I just… I didn't want you to worry, y'know?"

May sighed. "Peter, I will _always_ worry about you," she said and pulled him into a hug. "Baby, we've talked about this. You are _not_ a burden, do you understand? And if something happens to you, I want you to call me, right away," she reprimanded.

Now, it was Peter's turn to sigh. "Alright, I will. I'm sorry, May,"

"No more secrets, okay?" May requested and Peter's eyes widened.

"Uh… yeah. Okay," he squeaked.

May nodded, accepting this, and released him. When she turned away, she immediately noticed the blood on the couch and whirled back around. "Is this all your blood?!" she demanded, the panic returning.

Peter winced. He couldn't exactly tell her the truth so… "I'm really sorry, May," he whispered, wincing.

May ran a hand through her hair. "I don't know what I'm going to do with you, Peter," she said reaching out to hold him once more. It scared her to see the blood and the bruises and to know that people were hurting the boy she loved like a son.

Suddenly overcome with emotion, Peter stepped forward into his aunt's arm and held onto her like she was a lifeline. He wanted to cry. "I'm so sorry, May. I'll be more careful, I promise," he said softly. He could take the occasional beating from a bad guy in an alleyway. That was fine. It was the expression on May's face that caused him distress.

Suddenly, a loud thud (and a quiet, almost inaudible curse) sounded in Peter's room and May straightened, her hold on the teen loosening. She looked from Peter to the door, then back at Peter and asked, "What was that?"

Once again, Peter's eyes got wide and he swallowed thickly, stepping away. "Uh…. Nothing," he said quickly.

"Is Ned here?" May asked.

"Yes. Yeah, that's Ned," Peter said quickly, nodded.

May narrowed her eyes and studied his face carefully. "No, it's not. Peter…" she warned again. Peter wracked his brain trying desperately to think of something to cover up the fact that he was hiding a _fugitive super soldier in his room_ when, suddenly, May's shoulder's slumped and an exasperated expression crossed her features. "Peter, did you bring that wild dog inside, again?" she asked.

Peter almost fell over, he was so relieved. "May," he whined. "Tessa's not wild. She's just a stray," he explained.

May exhaled. "Peter, we've been through this! We're not allowed to have pets in here!"

"I know!" Peter countered. "I know, I just figured that you were out of town so…"

"Go take her back outside before the landlord catches you," May ordered and Peter nodded compliantly.

"Okay, May," he said and slipped into his room.


	8. Chapter 8

Guess who's back! Thought you could get rid of me? NO. And now, good news, this story FINALLY HAS A PLOT.

Thank you so much to everybody who's commented and favorited and followed! I won't be shouting out comments for the last chapter because there was such a large time gap, but I will next chapter, I promise!

Also, my L key isn't working right, so anybody who spots a word that's missing an L, shout it out in the comments and I'll write you a one-shot or something because i'm like 94% certain I got them all, but you never know. lol

* * *

Steve was more than familiar with the ins and outs of an illness. He'd spent a good portion of his childhood sick with all kinds of bugs and diseases. There were the sorts of sickness that everybody got (and he got them more than anyone.) Things like colds and flus fevers and infections. Then there were the sorts that served as nothing more than an irritation despite the ever present threat of death—asthma for example. Asthma wasn't like the flu, it didn't make you feel awful and half dead. As a young boy, he often thought that maybe it was like a muscle—he was prone to attacks after any sort of exercise so, maybe, if he exercised a little at a time, he'd eventually grow out of it. This was not the case. Then, there were the sorts of illness that he _knew_ were there, quietly torturing him. Scoliosis was a great example. The pain was small, almost ignorable, but ever present; an itch that could never be scratched, a constant, tiny irritation that slowly drove him up a wall.

Since the serum, Steve was much less prone to illness, but there were always the occasional, defiant viruses that proved able to slip past his immunity, once in a blue moon. It was strangely comforting, know that even in seventy years, some things never changed. The common cold was just as common and the world wasn't as foreign.

Illness crept up on the super soldier exactly the same, every time. The first step was always a decrease in concentration. Typically, he was the poster child for determination and singlemindedness, never wavering from a task until it was complete. However, when illness set in, his concentration was always the first to go, swiftly followed by motivation. Steve was very good at slogging through whatever duties he had to, so the first symptoms often went unnoticed. The second step in the process was always postnasal drip. This was, arguably, the worst part of any illness. Steve hated the feeling of that thick, sticky substance sliding down the back of his throat, catching in that awful flap in the back of his throat that connected to his sinuses. It was a constant irritation, a fullness that obstructed his breathing and reminded him far too closely of drowning. Then his throat would begin to ache, a painful, dull scratch in the back of his mouth that made itself known whenever he tried to swallow. As the hours would pass, the sore throat would worsen and the aches and chills would set in. Of course, Steve, ever the hard working, self-sacrificing little muffin that he was, always attempted to push through his illnesses without taking the time to rest. This always backfired. Always. The serum in his blood could wipe out diseases in no time flat… if only Steve would give his body the rest it needed to do so. Eventually, he'd always end up in bed, forcefully being fed soup by a very irritated Black Widow, who insisted that he needed to start taking care of himself. (They both knew he never would. Some things never change, after all. Not even in 70 years.)

Steve was no stranger to illness, nor was he a stranger to finding himself ill in uncomfortable places. He'd once gotten a twenty-four hour stomach flu while on a mission with Agent Barton in Brazil. To make things worse, he'd gotten lost from his partner and couldn't speak a word of Portuguese (despite being fluent in Spanish, his fever hazed brain couldn't seem to decode the sister Language.)

Never in his life, however, had Steve been ill in a position where he felt more powerless, more uncomfortable, and, frankly, more humiliated in his life. He was currently folded over beneath the low hanging top bunk of a teenager's bed, clutching onto a white plastic garbage can, and attempting to vomit as quietly as possible so as not to alert the aunt of the aforementioned teen.

Much like ironing and mountain climbing, silence and dry heaving are not two activities that are typically thought to go hand in hand. However, sometimes, miracles happen. (For ironing and mountain climbing, see Extreme Ironing.) In an effort to help the situation, Peter had skirted out into the living room and turned up the television to its max volume as soon as the ailing hero had sat up and said, "Kid, I hate to ask, but you wouldn't happen to have a bucket laying around anywhere, would you?" However, much to his credit, Steve was somehow able to stay remarkably quiet throughout the whole ordeal. Peter probably would've been impressed if it weren't such a weird thing to be impressed about.

Not knowing what to do with himself while the Captain's stomach attempted to turn itself inside out, Peter awkwardly inched towards the bed and sat down. He sat totally still for a moment, good hand flattened between his legs, lips pressed together in a tight line. He hesitated for a moment before placing his hand on his hero's back and gave it two or three hesitant, awkward pats, saying, "Hey, uh… it's…. uh, it's okay. Better out than in, right?"

Steve merely grunted. The attempt at comfort was appreciated. Not effective, or entirely welcomed, but appreciated. At the very least, the kid's heart was in the right place. Honestly, he would've told the kid off, asked him to step back if his mouth weren't so full of yesterday's ramen.

Steve was finished soon enough and curled up on Peter's small bed with all the grace of a floppy trash bag. He hadn't intended to, he was just so exhausted. After taking a moment to rest, he picked himself up, dragging himself by the reverse side of his spine, and forced himself into a somewhat upright position, reaching out for the sloshy waste bin as if he expected to get up and take care of it himself. His dirty blonde hair was tangled and the longer bits were sticking to his sweaty forehead, and he was far too cold, an _everything hurt_.

"No way!" Peter said with determination and snatch the vile bucket away. Steve, in response, managed enough energy to raise a questioning eyebrow. Peter cleared his throat to explain, "First of all, you're sick. Second of all, you're technically my house guest and aunt May would probably give me a lecture about how it's rude to- not that she knows or anything, but third! Third, I can't exactly have you traipsing through my home with May in the kitchen," he explained, speaking faster than he needed to, and purposefully avoiding eye contact with the chunky, surprising viscous material that freely swished about the inside of the basin.

"Uh, bad idea," Steve managed to affirm as he retracted his arm and tucked it beneath his body in an effort to conserve heat. He accidentally put too much pressure on both his aching ribs and throbbing wrist, and _something_ must've accidentally brushed against the big, nasty freezer burn on his chest—and he bit back a pained yelp, instead curling further on himself and huffing like a startled hedgehog. This whole situation was weird and awkward and Steve just wanted to go home. He didn't even know _which_ home—Brooklyn in the 40s, the Avengers tower before the big fight, the bunker he and his teammates were stashed out in, his apartment, hell- he would happily take the itty bitty dirty room in Brazil! Anywhere but here! Anywhere but here, with this kid who was too damn polite, and could probably be charged with treason if anyone found out he was hiding a fugitive in his bedroom. Speaking of the kid—

"You alright, Queens?" Rogers asked, eyeing the boy wearily as he aforementioned young man struggled to grip the bin with his good arm. Steve pushed himself up once again, propping himself on his elbow to get a better look at Spider-Man, whose face was screwed up and whose was rapidly growing pallid. "Queens?"

Peter jerked his head towards Steve and pushed his chin towards his chest as if reeling away from- oh. "Yeah, sorry. I'm uh, I'm a sympathetic vomitter," he explained and looked so absolutely miserably that Steve almost barked out a laugh. Instead of turning back towards the door (and, presumably, taking away the miserable bucket) Peter's bodyweight shifted and he turned back towards the super soldier and opened his mouth, having every intention to _continue to explain his sympathetic vomiting._ "See, it's not like a medical condition or anything. It's just the smell and the sound-"

Steve wasn't having it.

He untucked his good arm from where it was pressed tightly around his abdomen and waved the kid away. "Don't. Just… just go take it- wherever. Take it wherever," he said, halfway between a plead and a huff.

"Oh, right!" Peter said, wearing an expression that made Steve wonder if the kid was just now remembering what it was he was supposed to be doing. Peter skirted out into the hallway going far faster than anyone carrying a bucket of sloshing slop ever should, and Steve heard him call out, "Hi May, just taking out the trash!" followed by May's chirp, "What? With your arm like- let me do it. You go and rest," then Peter once more, "I'm okay, thanks though!" and finally, the sound of the front door shutting.

Steve draped his good arm over his eyes and groaned (softly, to himself, lest Aunt May hear him and discover that Peter is not, in fact, harboring an illegal dog, but an illegal war criminal.) Something was terribly, terribly wrong. Steve hadn't felt this awful since well before the serum, when he'd gotten a staph infection in his leg that had turned into an abscess. It had been different back then. The medicine wasn't like it was today. He could've died from that. Maybe he did and all of this was just an elaborate fever dream playing out inside of his head in his final moments of life. Maybe he was still just a sickly little kid back home in Brooklyn. Maybe his mom was hovering over him, moping his brow with a wet rag and humming a lullaby. Maybe Bucky was sitting by his elbow telling awful puns or talking about the adventures they were going to go on when he got better. Maybe nothing had changed. Wouldn't that be nice? No serum, no shield, no plane, no ice. He liked helping people, really he did. But sometimes… sometimes he wondered if it was all worth it.

There was a hand on his uninjured shoulder and suddenly Steve was sitting up. His bright blue eyes looked around the room wildly. Where-? Spider-man. Right. Speaking of the kid… Steve's eyes slowly landed on a heap on the floor. Then the heap started moving and-

"Holy shit!" Peter exclaimed as he picked himself up off the ground. He was covered in blood. Blood?! No. Tomato sauce?

Steve's eyes widened. "Shit, kid! Are you okay?" he demanded. He'd hit the kid. He'd knocked him clean across the room.

Peter's head shot up and he raced for the door without any warning, abandoning the bowl and noodles and sauce without a warning. He was at the door just as it opened a crack and May asked, "Peter? What was that? What happened? Are you alright?" Thank the heavens for his Spider Sense.

"Yeah of course," Peter said as nonchalantly as was possible, whist trying to shield Steve from May's view. "I, uh, I just tripped and accidentally dropped my… bowl…" Peter said, trailing off with a wince.

May put her hands on her hips. "Peter, I've told you a thousand times, no eating in your room! You know how the rats get in and I don't want another rat problem,"

Peter slipped out of the room, weaseling through the door to close it behind him. "Aw, c'mon May," he said in his most innocent, most charming voice. "You know if we ever had rat's again, I'd just- pew! Pew!" he said, holding out his good arm and firing pretend webs at imaginary rats.

A small smile quirked across May's lips in spite of herself. "So if this whole… 'Avengers' thing doesn't work out, it's good to know that your job options are open," she teased while trying to still sound somewhat stern.

Peter smiled sheepishly. "Yeah, that's me: your friendly neighborhood pest control,"

"But seriously, Peter, no eating in your room," May reiterated.

Peter shifted his weight. "Just… one bowl?" he asked holding up one finger. "Because I'm hurt and, you know, with my healing factor, I've gotta keep up my metabolism,"

May crossed her arms and seemed entirely unimpressed. She regarded him for a moment, looking him up and down before finally relenting. "Alright, just one. But you have to put your dishes in the sink right afterwards," she said.

"I will!" Peter nodded and raced off towards the kitchen, throwing a bowl of spaghetti together and quickly returning to the door to his room.

May, who hadn't moved an inch, held out her hand, pinkie extended. "Pinkie promise?"

Peter snorted but, nevertheless, intertwined pinkies with her. "Pinkie promise,"

That seemed well enough to appease his aunt, who finally smiled in full and reached out to ruffled her nephew's hair. "Alright, go and get some rest. Call me if you need anything,"

"I will!" Peter exclaimed and slipped back into his room once again, where Steve had just finished scooping up the stray noodles with a rag. "No! It's okay, you don't have to do that!" Peter exclaimed, feeling more than a little embarrassed by the fact that Captain America, himself and in the flesh, was cleaning up his messes. He ushered the soldier back to his crowded little bed and sat him down. "Here, I, uh, got you this," he said, holding out the bowl of spaghetti. "You fell asleep. You were out for a really long time. But, uh, May made dinner and I figured you'd be hungry so…"

Carefully, Steve took the bowl and frowned down at it, brows knit together, searching for what to say. After a long silence, he lifted his head and asked, "Are you alright?"

Peter, who'd taken to wiping sauce off of his dressed, looked up sharply, with owlish eyes and asked, "Yeah, of course, it was actually super cool. I mean, it was startling, but I guess I can't really blame you for it because I woke you up and this is a new place and all. You really didn't hit me all that hard. See? Didn't even damage the wall! Hey, how are you feeling by the way? Oh, also, sometimes May's cooking is kind of bad so if you don't want to eat it, I can go out and get you something from the deli before it closes,"

And suddenly, Steve was, once again, regretting asking. The kid sure could talk. Somewhat amused, somewhat exasperated, and completely exhausted, he shoot his head and rose to his feet, setting the bowl on the nightstand.

"Hey, where are you going?" Peter asked. "Do you have to pee? I can go distract May if you have to pee,"

Steve exhaled, long and weary. "No, no. Nothing like that," he said. "Listen, Peter. I appreciate your help, I really do. But I can't stay here. It's too dangerous, for both of us. If somebody finds me, you could get into a lot of trouble and I'm not willing to risk that,"

Peter seemed surprised by this. Nevertheless, his posture didn't change, save for the fact that he crossed his arms, which only seemed to ground him further. He gave no indication that he had any intention of stepping aside, which made Steve both proud and frustrated.

"I am," Peter said simply. Then, he had the _audacity_ to _shrug casually_ as if it were nothing, as if he didn't face the risk of life in federal prison if anyone found Steve in his teeny tiny little apartment.

"Excuse me?" Steve asked and immediately sat back down in an attempt to formulate a response, he was so completely blown over by the kid's nerve.

Peter exhaled, thought for a moment, then merely shook his head. "Look, Mister Captain Rogers, sir-" he began, which promptly earned him an unamused glance from the aforementioned hero. "Sorry, Steve," Peter corrected, though he disliked how the word felt on his tongue. The man was Captain America, defender of patriotism and liberty and America and freedom. The dude started off his career by punching Hitler in the face over and over and over, how much cooler could you get? It felt wrong to relegate him to something as informal as a first name.

"It's just…" After two words, Peter was already at a loss for what to say. Steve watched as his face scrunched up, lips flattening out, brows knitting together, cheeks twisting up towards his eyes- and he was unsure what emotion the kid was feeling. It wasn't shame or embarrassment, it was something deeper, something that obviously tugged at the very root of the kid.

"Where will you go?" Peter asked at last. It was strange, really, to see an expression of such deep concern on a face so young. It was an expression Steve had seen many times before on his mother's face as she hovered over him, dealing with the latest bout of influenza threatening to steal her child away from her. He'd seen it on Pepper many times during difficult nights when Tony seemed entirely convinced that his liver was the root of all evil and the only solution was to drink until it stopped functioning. He'd even seen it on Natasha once during a quiet moment after a stupid mistake landed Clint in a coma for three days.

It struck Steve as strange that a kid so young would wear an expression so ancient on behalf of a man he hardy knew outside of press coverage. It struck him so hard that he couldn't find the right words to articulate a proper response. His hazel eyes fell, landing on his hands and studying them as if the universe had knit the answer into his DNA and if he only searched hard enough, he might be able to find it. Slowly, he lifted his head and dragged the beginning of a response from somewhere buried inside of him: "Queens, listen-"

"-No, it's just-" Peter sucked in a sharp breath, and rolled his head across his shoulders. Brown, wavy hair, mussed from a day spent laying around in bed (those are the sorts of things kids his age out to be doing, not swinging around town desperately trying to provide some semblance of kindness to a world starved of mercy. Kids were meant to be selfish, weren't they?) shrouded his heads as he brought his head back around and tucked his chin against his chest. "When I was a really little kid, I remember my dad got this infection in his leg once. It was big and nasty and it got all swollen and it smelled gross, and his whole leg was huge! I mean it looked like something you'd see at a freak show!"

Steve quirked an eyebrow, both unsure of the relevance of the story, and somewhat taken aback by how freely the kid was able to talk about his deceased parents. There was a twinge of entirely unnecessary pride that bubbled up in Steve's chest (dammit, it was easy to see why Tony got so attached.) The past didn't hold the kid down. It was the sort of strength of character that Steve himself, admittedly, lacked—the ability to move on with one's life after a tragedy.

Peter flapped his hands wildly, as if trying to reign himself back in. The gesture served to shake Steve from his thoughts as well. "Anywhoodles! Yikes, that was weird. I didn't say that, pretend I didn't say that. But that's not the point. See, he got really sick. I mean, he was throwing up and really tired and my mom had to bring him soup and stuff and it just kept getting worse and, listen, I know you're a super soldier and everything, but I'm thinking your leg might be infected with something,"

Steve stared at him for a moment, head cocked backwards, before his composure dissolved and he laughed out loud. Peter, obviously irritated, put his good hand on his hip and scowled. "Hey what was that for, I'm being serious!"

Roger's laughter didn't last long. The aching in his ribs and chest prompted him, almost immediately to _stop with the shenanigans, dammit, we're trying to heal!_ "No, I know you are. It was just a very round about way to get to your point. You should've started with that,"

Peter stepped backwards and examined Steve warily. "Yeah, well, I didn't think you'd believe me!" he exclaimed, his voice raising an octave. Looking unsure as to whether he wanted to feel hurt or offended or embarrassed or some combination of the three, Peter shifted weight and shook his messy hair out of his face, discarding any ill-emotion along with it. "Look, all I'm saying is that you seem really sick. Hey, don't think this is weird, because I swear it's not weird, I was just curious, but I've, uh, I've done a lot of research into your serum and stuff- er- your reports and things—reports on the serum, not on _you_ , not to be weird or anything—but I thought the serum was supposed to work better than that,"

Steve barked out another laugh, good hand flying to his protesting ribs. Dammit, he couldn't help it. "Ouch, kid. Sorry, I didn't mean to disappoint," he began and Peter's eyes widened just a hair.

"No, I mean, not that it's disappointing or anything, it's just that-"

But Steve, feeling somewhat childish, couldn't seem to resist having a dig at the young super hero and butted in, grinning slyly, "-And I'm flattered to know that you stalk me on the internet—"

Peter's eyes widened once again, his whole face flushing beet red. "I don't stalk you! C'mon, man, I never said that!" he exclaimed, relaxing when he realized that the superhero was only joking.

"Is that how Tony found out about you?" Steve continued to press, unable to resist the temptation of a little harmless fun at the expense of the kid. "You bombarded him with DMs until he finally couldn't ignore you?"

Now it was Peter's turn to find himself taken aback. His face, the perfect picture of shock and mock horror, dissolved into an amused snort. "Did you just say DMs?" he asked and Steve's mirth immediately evaporated into confusion.

"Yes, direct message. DMs. That's what people say, right?" Steve was 94% certain he was right but there was still a lingering 6% that just wanted to make sure. The soldier had learned, very early on after waking up from his brief nap in the ice, that catching up on slang would be critical to surviving in the modern world. This need first became apparent when, during a press conference and in response to a question about Tony's behavior, Steve simply quipped, "Whatever keeps him gay (happy)", effectively hurtling the media into a panic. Steve then solidified his decision to catch up on new lingo after an incident in which Bruce asked if he was excited for the debriefing after a particularly disastrous mission and Steve sarcastically responded, "Yeah, it sure does razz my berries," and was effectively tormented with it for the rest of the week when Tony caught wind of it.

Peter grinned wickedly, then shrugged with one shoulder, sat back in the chair at his desk and said, "Yeah. It just surprised me is all. I just wasn't aware you knew how to operate a computer," He let the jab sink in for a moment before looking up (anxiously and fully prepared to flounder in apologies if needs be) just to make sure Steve wasn't offended, but the man in question was merely shaking his head and trying in vain to suppress a smile.

"Tony's having a bad effect on you, Queens," Steve said with a snort and a small smile and Peter, relieved, happily returned it.

The effect didn't last long, unfortunately. Peter's smile sagged away and that look of concern returned to his face. "Look, here's the thing: I really mean it. You're real sick mister- Steve," Peter wrinkled his nose. "Are you sure we can't just meet somewhere in the middle? How about just Captain?"

Steve rolled his eyes, "Steve, kid," he affirmed.

Peter opened his mouth and looked ready to protest but decided against it, realizing that he needed to focus on the argument at hand. "Look, I'm being serious. You're real sick. I mean you were puking up your guts for, like, fifteen whole minute and then you were out like a light and none of your injuries are getting any better! That can't be right, can it?" Peter was talking rapidly, his good hand flapping around manically as he punctuated his words with various gestures. "I mean, you've got the serum and all and, sure, maybe it's not as good as the crazy tabloids make it out to be, but even without the serum, your cuts and stuff should still _scab_ , right?"

Peter rose to his feet, pushing himself upright from the desk in agitation. He ran a hand through his hair and paced back and forth between the door and the desk. "Look, I know this is super weird, 'cause I'm just some kid who totally kicked your ass in Germany-"

"I don't think-" Steve began, but Peter merely flashed a cheeky, if not somewhat distracted, smile.

"No, I'm only joking. Well, kind of. I did have your shield and everything and it was pretty badass-"

" _Peter-_ "

"Yeah, sorry. Anyways, I know it's weird 'cause I'm just some kid. And I don't want you to stay here either! Shit, I mean, I _do,_ you're super cool, like this is hugely awesome that you're here in my house and everything- but you're sick and I'm not a doctor and I'm super unqualified for this but, here's the thing: nobody else will take you, right? I mean, you're a war criminal. You can't just waltz into the nearest ER and ask for help, right? They'd arrest you! And I don't… I don't know if I think that's right," Another sharp breath. Peter slouched back down in his seat at the desk.

"I dunno. I dunno who's right and who's wrong," He sounded almost… defeated. Confused at the very least and rightly so. "I don't even know what you guys were fighting about in Germany. Yeah, the Accords but what even are those, right? I just tagged along because holy shit Iron Man knocked on my door and asked me to go to Germany with him! How freaking cool is that! I mean that was the best day of my whole life!" Peter was grinning again.

Then, he groaned and put his hands in his head. There was a long period of silence and Steve, in a strangely paternal moment, reached out to pat the kid on the back, to comfort him, to tell him they'd think of something, but the kid's head suddenly shot up and Steve, feeling shaken out of his trance, retracted his hand. "I'm not gonna turn you in. I mean, you're still a hero after all. You're still Captain America. And you saved my life! I'm not gonna- we'll think of something. We'll figure it out. Just… just don't go yet, okay?" Peter plead. "You can't. Not like this, you'll get killed out there!"

Steve, somewhat overwhelmed by the bombardment of emotion and the sudden nausea that was creeping back into his stomach, opened his mouth to protest, but Peter cut him off. "I mean, you're Captain America and all, but I once went patrolling while I had the flu and it was miserable. It was a total nightmare. So I… I know how it is, and I know you're a lot more experienced and stuff but this… this is really bad. So… so just stay one more night and we can figure it out,"

Steve was silent for a moment, considered the disheveled teen who was, in a strange sense, arguing for his life. It was an incredibly kind gesture, one that was rare in this world and made Steve feel strangely nostalgic. Some things never changed, he supposed. "You don't have to do this, Peter. You don't have to take on all this weight yourself,"

"Yeah, but I want to! I'm not just a kid, okay? What's there to be afraid of? The government? I'm not afraid of the government," he said and almost made a joke about being good friends with the FBI agent who monitored his computer but ultimately rejected the idea. Now wasn't the time for jokes and memes.

Steve chuckled. "You know, you remind me a lot of myself back when I was your age," he said, using that soft tone of voice that indicated he was joking.

Peter, taking the message, rolled his eyes. "Physically you're like, what late 20s, early 30s? You're like not even old enough to be my dad and you're talking like an old man,"

Once again, Steve tossed his head back and laughed. He really had to stop doing that, it was starting to hurt. "Hey, I'm old enough to be your great-grandfather. I demand some respect, young man,"

Peter smiled once again but, once again, it vanished quickly. "I meant it about staying. You're still a hero. If nothing else, you're still my hero. And if you got out there and died because nobody would help you, or because you were sick and got attacked and couldn't fight them back, it'd be my fault. Since I became Spider-Man, I haven't lost anybody yet, Captain Rogers. Please don't be the first person I lose,"

Steve didn't even have the energy to chastise Peter (again) for the name. He just felt… emotionally drained and strangely touched by the gesture. Slowly, he nodded. "Alright. Alright, you win. But just for tonight,"

Peter's mood did a complete 180. With his victory secured, he punched the air in excitement, groaning when the action jostled his shoulder. He then nodded dutifully and said, "Okay, but first thing's first, we gotta figure out why your serum isn't working. Second, we gotta fix your leg. Both of those things, not necessarily in order. Also, you need to eat May's spaghetti. I promise it wasn't too bad this time," he said, thrusting the bowl into Steve's hand and the super soldier had no choice but to acquiesce.

"You know, I actually think I might know someone who could help," Steve offered, twirling the noodles around his fork. "You got a laptop I can borrow?"

Peter nodded. "Yeah of course! Who is it?" he asked, reaching under the bed to fish around for his laptop.

Steve smirked. "How much do you know about Wakanda?"

* * *

BIG NEWS:

1\. I have two new Avengers oneshots in the works, both of which are referenced in this story. The first is about the mission in Brazil with Steve and Clint and the second is about the horrible misadventures of Steve's old slang because I did a lot of research on slang from the 20s-40s, and that shit is HILARIOUS.

2\. I want to do an art swap. Anybody who wants to draw some fanart for me based on this fic, I'll write you a oneshot about anything of your choosing (except smut, not really my thing). Shoot me some of those hot DMs if you're interested and we'll talk.

Thank you guys for sticking with me through the hiatus. Love you all 3000!


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